Lambs of War
by CaptainSicarius
Summary: Oliver and Hugo met in a morose land but were lifted from damnation. Poland wasn't their prison anymore, Hogwarts was their home. A prophecy links them together and they perform one of the largest feats and conspiracies in both wizarding and muggle history. They changed the fate of the world forever. - C.R. Hockney
1. The Train to Hell

**Here I am again. I don't have many readers, but if anyone is out there and sees this please send over a review and tell me what you think about this fic! It would mean a lot and I love reading them. I've been working on this for a _long_ time and I'm glad to finally share it with .**

 **I want to update every Saturday but I'm a music student and have more than enough to do outside of school, so please bear with me if I don't update every single week. I will say it outright if it's impossible for me to update on a certain week due to my schedule. Let's just pray I don't get writer's block...**

 **Also, I initially forgot I posted this before and between then and now I made some edits. I don't really know how detrimental they'll be *shrug* but it'll probably be for the better.**

 **Until next week,**

 **Cap**

 **Disclaimer:**

 _I gain no profit from the publication of this work. All ideas derived from the universe of the Harry Potter franchise belong to J.K. Rowling._

 _Dedicated to the victims of the of the holocaust and all those that fought in the Allied Forces during WWII._

 **Chapter I : The Train to Hell**

Irony has a mean way of presenting itself; so found many citizens of Germany who lived in Hitler's Third Reich. Muggles and wizards alike realized this, but when or if they did, it was too late.

In the year 1936 in Germany, Adolf Hitler had been declared führer directly after president Hindenburg had died two years prior, and came to power as the complete dictator of the state. Every citizen was expected to own a volume of _Mein Kampf_ , and they were all supposed to join the Nazi Party no matter what their social or economic status; if a man didn't enter, then he would be putting himself and his family at great risk of being taken away, never to be seen or heard from ever again.

A boy and his family, however, who resided in the German state, were not Nazis, as their nosy, horse-faced neighbors constantly reminded them, sometimes shouting out the window in the mornings when his mother was hanging up laundry or shaking out a rug. The boy's father was an apothecary, and was trained in England, which was well known for its herb-work around the wizarding world; he specialized in both muggle and magical goods at his shop, _Faust's Apothecary & Other Medicinal Supplies_. Oftentimes the boy's father would make small explosions from magical potions that would do silly things, albeit nothing harmful. He was also an admirable cellist and played in a local symphony orchestra, although it paid little to nothing. His mother was a delivery woman who brought packages (never letters) to people's front doors, and also had a very small salary, plus whatever tips she was given from her customers. She was always home an hour before dinnertime to prepare the evening meal, which usually wasn't more than a bowl of pea soup and bread.

The boy was named Oliver Faust. He was only six years old, but knew how to play the violin quite well, considering his young age. His repertoire wasn't horribly wide, but he knew a few professional pieces, and was learning newer ones as best he could at quite an astonishing rate. His teacher often prided him strictly, always telling him that he could do something better; so he did. He didn't need to go so far to perform, but he did so often at a small church about a mile away from his small home with the surprisingly good volunteer orchestra his father played in as principal cellist.

He didn't live in a particularly rich part of Dresden, but not near the dirt poor slums. His family didn't even own a car, but were lucky enough to not have to share an apartment complex with the rest of the city, like most of its residents were forced to.

While blood status mattered elsewhere, it was an even more important 'virtue' in Germany, to the point where muggleborn wizards and their families were kicked into mud and beaten in the middle of the street by other magical folk, at the worst of times. Oliver's mother, Christa, was a muggle, while his father Arlo wielded a wand made of ash and dragon. He used to be a member of the Magische Polizei before he had completed his training as an apothecary, and was a first-rate officer, one of the best that the Magische Versammlung had to offer before he quit. All of the subordinates and higher-ups he had started to gradually be sucked down into the world of the Nazis, abiding by their rules and customs without the bat of an eye. Oliver was expected to be as powerful as his father or even more so, according to his former co-workers; he wasn't so sure they saw that he wasn't much of the fighting-type. He'd rather stay in his room, or perhaps go to the piano bench to practice, and then perform a piece or two at the stage and afterwards play with ladybugs and worms in the yard outside.

Along with his passion for music, the boy loved to read. Unfortunately, many books were taken and burned because the German Student Union did not deem them to be correct; the books that were banned opposed German beliefs in one way or another. "This one was written by a Jewish author,'' they said, or " _this_ one by Albert Einstein says that science and religion are coexisting! Such nonsense," they cried, and piled the books higher into mighty pyres, splattering them with kerosene as they jumped and danced in flame and fire.

So, Oliver decided with a leap of faith that he would take the cover off of his copy of _Mein Kampf_ and slip it over his storybook, telling about a prisoner who made his life from nothing, and then raised an orphan girl and died a martyr in a revolution-scarred land. That was a great risk, but he thought that _Mein Kampf_ was probably the worst book ever written, and he'd rather not deal with it if he didn't have to. Oliver had been forced to listen to it being read aloud during class while at school (where he was given the book in the first place), but he tried not to pay much attention unless Frau Feige decided that a pop quiz was necessary for the well being of her class. Of course, she rarely did, because she didn't like grading every single paper so much; she was often lazy, but still very strict.

He so wished to go to a magic school when he was older instead of the rotten schoolhouse he was stuck in, but a thing such as that was not possible at that point in time. Since he was only six and not nearly old enough to attend Altenstein's, the wizarding school located in northern Germany, he had no idea how to use such magic as was associated with the former work of his father's. When he was about four or five, Hitler had purposely shut it down through the magical government with the knowledge that the leaders of every other country in the world, whether axis, allied, or neutral, also knew of the magic world (the leaders, at least). He had thought that if the only magical school was still running in his empire and with the number of wizards coming out, the outcome would mean a greater risk of a magical revolt against his campaign, and he would be overthrown. Ergo, shutting down the school and making all magic-related items and affairs illegal, including wands, magic books of any sort, magical creatures, nonverbal magic, and anything else that a witch or wizard could do different than a muggle, was the answer. Essentially, they would be more restricted, freedom-wise, than an everyday German citizen, even if those everyday citizens were also deprived.

Although all magic of any kind was banned, any witch or wizard individuals that were at all known for odd behavior or doing illegal magic were captured and taken to a concentration camp to be re-educated, as they called it. The process consisted of the usual practices concerning brainwashing, but was accelerated by one variable: the dementor's kiss.

While Hitler was a muggle, he had known of the existence of magic for the entirety of his life, yet knew very little about it for most of that time. His three surviving siblings, Paula, Angela and Alois, all had turned out to be muggleborn magic-users. All but him were magical, and they never spoke of it to him when he asked, so he was left in the dark as a child. He used that lifelong curiosity that had plagued him to fuel his vision for the future of his _reich_. He was able to brainwash prisoners faster with the dementors, and once the magical ones were brainwashed, they were re-educated with Nazi ideals and joined a secret army consisting of the only witches and wizards permitted to do magic when he had come to power: The _Geheimen Truppen_. They spanned the entire European continent, most prominent in Germany, and also had situated themselves in few parts of Asia, the US, and Great Britain; they were in the concentration camps, and could sort out the magic from the muggles; they worked with the gestapo; they roamed the streets as regular civilians would. The entire network of the GT was like a spider web engulfing a fly that had no idea it was trapped in the first place. All of the magic would be his; he would be thwarting his downfall and growing stronger at the same time, and his security would only increase as the years ranked up behind him in his place as chancellor; dictator, rather.

Oliver's magical abilities, like with every young witch or wizard around or at his own age, had begun to blossom. Thus, he had to be that much more cautious and conscious of himself while learning to control his spontaneous, pedagogical bursts of magic while out in public, if he ever went; his father said it would be dangerous. Oliver had neither a wand nor magical training, but his father had told him of a few useful spells that could be of some use to him once he was able to learn magic and obtain a wand: _stupefy, expelliarmus,_ and _reducto_ ; all spells that were used in dueling. "Like father, like son," he said proudly. The boy could only hope not to disappoint him.

* * *

"Maybe this one could make the drinker meow like a cat?" Oliver suggested to his father, who was brewing a petty concoction for his boy to play with. Arlo did just so, mixing in three hairs from a cat and a scale from a grindylow.

Oliver's father was a slightly short, rather young man, and had dusty blond hair paired with blue eyes; befitting enough for the average German man, at least according to the Nazi's ideals, so he was widely accepted as a good aryan. He usually had his apron on, and it carried the battle scars of exploding potions and the powdery remnants of herbs and spices. His hands always seemed to be covered in chalk whenever he was at work, and was continually wiping them on his armored torso.

"Alright, it will be done by tonight. I'll bottle it up later and tomorrow we can see if it works," Arlo said, picking up his son and lifting him off of the counter where he had been perched. "Whew-! You're getting big, mein Junge! How old are you now?"

"Almost six, Vati. My birthday is next month."

"What do you want, then?"

Oliver thought for a moment. "A new book. Maybe one with fairytales?"

"I'll see if I can get the money for it by then," he thought out loud, turning the burner off from under the potion to let it sit for a few hours. He heard the bell to the door of the shop ring, and he set Oliver down, going through the door and walking briskly to the counter, a hard, business-like expression on his face. "May I help you-? Ah, Christa!" He softened, and kissed his wife from behind the counter.

"My break is almost up and I need someone to help me carry some packages. Can Oliver do it, Liebe?"

Oliver put his arms on the top of the counter and attempted to peer over the top of the tabletop. "Yes I can!"

Arlo chuckled. "Alright, get a move on. I probably won't be too busy for the rest of the night, but I still have to stay for another hour or two. Will you be back at home by then?"

"Yes, and I'll make the usual tonight."

Arlo nodded, and then was quiet. He whispered, "What if… what if the gestapo come tonight?"

"You say that every night for days and they haven't come yet," Christa reasoned, growing nervous, herself. She sighed and whispered, "It will be okay, please don't be so worried. I know it's scary, and I'm anxious about it, too, but Oliver…"

"Right, right." Arlo cleared his throat, "Oliver, we have the dress rehearsal at the other church tomorrow morning at ten for the Mozart concerto and then the performance later, remember?"

 _Oh, right!_ He had almost forgotten. "Yes, I can't wait! The audience at the other church loved it."

"Yes, they did. Well, have a good run, you two. I'll see you at home, then. I love you."

"I love you, too," they both chorused.

* * *

Christa was not curvy, but wasn't terribly skinny, albeit short in stature. Her frizzy, wavy hair was a gentle red and was shorter than her shoulders, setting her apart from plenty of young women her age. Paired with her bright green eyes, she was quite beautiful, though, and always received smiles at the doors of customers when delivering their packages and parcels. Sometimes they were deliveries of magical artifacts or items, but she was accustomed to a box with smoke coming out of a torn corner or a jumping lump covered in brown paper; she was a muggle, but knew what to expect thanks to her magical husband.

Oliver towed along behind his mother, carrying two small packages in his arms, while his mother carried a rather large one tied together with twine and marked with a sticker yelling _ZERBRECHLICH_ on the top.

On the way to the last destination, when they were to deliver the last package, one of the small ones he was carrying, Oliver noticed a pyre burning in the town square, and people were shouting and throwing things into it. "Mutti, what is that?"

Christa looked on. "That is what the Nazis make their youth do: burn books that they think are inferior so that we can't read them. It's a shame and a disgrace, really. Good books should be cherished, not destroyed."

Oliver looked down. "Yes, Mutti."

"Oliver?"

He looked up.

Christa stopped in her tracks. "I know you heard the conversation Vati and I had. Please promise that if something does happen, you'll still remember to be alert, okay? Don't be dull-minded like how the neighbors say they are in those camps; it will only make you think like them, and you'll think like the crowd. If something does happen, use your head, please, my boy. You'll survive."

Oliver didn't quite understand what point his mother was trying to get across, but he agreed nonetheless. "Okay, Mutti."

They delivered the last package to an old woman in an apartment building on the third floor. She had ordered a book, and when she opened it she read the title aloud. " _Harry Houdini: Master of the Art of Escaping_. How entertaining; my thanks," she said, handing over her payment to Christa.

* * *

On most nights Oliver had trouble going to sleep. He was not an insomniac, but he could think of so many things in a multitude of different facets that was not possible when it wasn't quiet, like right then, laying in his bed. He thought about the sun, and how it hadn't been out in so long that he couldn't remember what sunlight touching his skin felt like; he thought about how cynical and cold the people in his city behaved, how much like the winter weather they were; how, on some nights, his family didn't have the money to have a fire in the kitchen. Even though the city was full of people, full of children his age, he was still lonely, and never played much outside because he was scared. Occasionally he would play football in the street or go hunting with his father, but it wasn't the same. The other children he played with already had their own friends, so he was mere background noise to them. If they were of magical descent, they didn't wish to consort with him, either, because he was a half-blood. His father was fine company, and his mother also, when she took him on runs, but it wasn't the same as having a friend of his own, like him. Eventually, he grew bored with his mind and decided to read.

A small thump sounded downstairs; it was probably one of his parents going to get some water, he thought, or perhaps they were going to the bathroom. Then, something shiny caught his eye through the window. A slick, black truck was parked in the usually vacant spot in front of the house. Suddenly the thump turned into brash knocking, and the sound of the door being thrown off its hinges rang through the house. There was the crashing stomps of violent footsteps coming up the stairs, one, two, three, four. Oliver closed the door in a frenzy and scrambled under his bed, the dust from the floor making itself at home in his bed-headed hair and wrinkly night clothes. He heard someone open the door to his bedroom with a bang, and he burrowed further still, peeking out through a sliver of light from under the bottom of the bed.

He had heard of what father feared would happen to them in the night, so Oliver had grabbed his tiny one-fourth size violin and his book as precaution in the event that they didn't come home ever again. Father was always so scared that they would come and take them away, but his nightmare had come to a fateful reality.

The man entered, clad in boots tipped with iron. They stopped in the middle of the room for a moment, and then quickly crouched down and reached under the bed with a swiftness only a skilled hand could have mustered, dragging Oliver out by his shirt collar. All the while the boy screamed and kicked, desperate to get out of the intruder's grip.

"Close your mouth, _boy_ , or you won't have one by the end of the night!" the intruder barked, taking him through the empty doorframe and into the night.

" _YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR BEING TRAITORS OF THE NAZI STATE!_ " a different officer yelled, spitting in Arlo's face.

" _Prove it!_ " He barely managed to sputter out while being choked, still attempting a punch or two.

The officer caused a slip to materialize in his hands. He hissed, "Here's your proof." Arlo then contorted his face and kicked his magical offender in the knee.

"I want- no, I demand you to let me speak to your superior! He will understand, I have done all I could, he will set things right-" Immediately Arlo was muted with a slap to the face. " _Show me to him!_ "

"Silence!" the officer said.

Oliver's father had received his letter of conscription ordering him to join the German military, but per order of the Magical Assembly, he was required to burn his letter else he would be killed once in the military by the Magische Polizei. According to German law, if a citizen resisted conscription into the armed forces, they would be taken away and killed; they were going to die one way or another, no matter what choice he chose; so he burned the letter. For that reason, Arlo had been troubled in the past week, not going out and becoming nervous whenever someone passed by the window or looked at them in an odd manner. He had closed his shop earlier and relocated all of the dangerous magical substances to the basement out of sheer skepticism and paranoia.

Christa suddenly took her own assailant's wrists and tried to pry them off of her torso, ultimately failing after the man threw her into the back of the slick, black van. She cried out; after being thrown and landing the wrong way, she had broken her wrist in the process of falling.

As Oliver was struggling to escape from the officer's grip, he dropped his book, although was able to keep a grip on his violin. In the process of dropping it, the book slipped out of it's hiding place, not wanting to be seen through its facade any longer. The cover slipped off in Oliver's hands the book fell out onto the dusty road with a _thump_ and the words _Les Misérables_ read across the face. It looked towards the sky on it's brown cover as its keeper was being dragged away. He pleaded, he begged for it to only be a dream. He could swear the book jumped a few feet to try and make its way back to him, but it was to no avail, for he was already in the truck, and the doors were closing in on him.

* * *

During the truck ride, he sat slumped in the corner as the truck rocked on the bumpy road. He had not cried, but he was angry; angry, sorrowful, and afraid. He clutched his violin in his arms while leaning against his mother, who was rubbing his scrawny back. His father was sitting next to Christa, gently whispering to her and inspecting her arm. His head was down, slouching in its seat atop his shoulders with melancholy grief.

When they had traveled in the van for a couple of hours, the family was taken and dropped off at a train station. It lay situated in the middle of nowhere; the grass was gray, and there were no trees in sight, only miles upon miles of rusty train tracks veiled in mist. Whatever other people were there (and they were minimal) were raggedy and gray like the land they stood around atop the stone plateau, waiting for whatever train might come to eat them up.

Oliver looked up at his mother and father; their faces were stony and worried, their eyes watery, not unlike his own green ones contrasting against his golden head. "Vati," he asked quietly, "where are we going?" He knew it couldn't be anything good; he was young, but he wasn't stupid. The men that took them had guns, they were loud and mean, and they were taken from their home, most likely to never return. Perhaps they might know of the new place they were going to go to?

"I don't know for sure, son," Arlo answered with chapped lips, drawing his coat closer around his shoulders. Oliver looked to his mother for an answer, then.

"And I too, I'm sorry," Christa sighed, loosely bracing her arm against her torso.

It was hours before any train came. When it did arrive, their car was no more than a cattle box on wheels, sporting no elbow room as more passengers came aboard at different stations, and two single buckets: one for water, and one for waste.

The ride itself lasted two days. Two days without sufficient water, and no food. Two days standing, mostly without sleep. By the time the train had come to its destination, the boy could barely keep on his own two feet, wobbling and daring not to whine for rest. Christa carried Oliver close in her arms, much against Arlo's pleading for her health, and embraced him with every step. If he were to open his eyes, Oliver would only be greeted by a view of his mother's short, strawberry blonde hair; it even smelled like strawberries, though the places they had been were dark and disgusting to any senses one could perceive.

When the crowd of prisoners made their way into the concentration camp, they were told to go into a courtyard. Christa put Oliver down between herself and her husband, and they waited. Chaos engulfed them with every step they took inwards into the prison camp. People screamed, tore at each other's coats, were shot on the spot.

Oliver was wide awake, then. Officers with big guns and stern faces patrolled the discord, looking at every prisoner from head to toe. They inspected each person. A little ways away a short old man wouldn't keep still, and looked to be having a hard time even breathing, for he was very anemic. An officer who was walking by stopped, looked at him, and shot him, right in the middle of the forehead. He walked on and continued his task; three more were shot where they stood, and others were taken away. The rest which remained that were not shot or taken aside were put to the left or right of the muddy courtyard, their fate given to them in a tarnished pewter bowl.

The boy, frightened, elected to watch the sky instead of the onslaught of death taking place before him. The clouds changed with the strong winds above his head, twisting and contorting with every whisper in their ears, as if commanded by the wind to do its bidding like puppets. It was too bad that they never allowed the sun out, though. The clouds were like a cage for the sun, constricting it like a snake, choking it at gunpoint. Oliver hated that the sun didn't get to shine, he wanted to feel warm against the rays of a joyful day. But would a day like that ever come again? Did he even remember of a day such as that in so short a life as his had led so far? _Bam_. Another bar sautered onto the cage. _Bam_. Another serpent joined the horde of snakes. _Bam!_ All the rifles fired and the sky was stained with blood.

It started to rain. Oliver looked on at the sky as the rain droplets fell around him like in slow motion, as if he were traveling at the speed of the unconscious mind. It took all of his might, but he tore his eyes away from the sky and he looked to his right; there stood his father, still as a statue, his eyes wider than the moon was round. He looked to his left; there his mother fell, her head no more than some scraggly bits of flesh and hair still clinging around her neck.

The rain covered him like a sheet. Not only water droplets fell, but blood, by the gallons. He could feel it, warm and sticky on his face, splattering onto him, the ground, and those in the surrounding vicinity. But suddenly, _she_ was on the ground, a limp body without a head.

Oliver couldn't make a sound. Not a grunt, not a scream, not a choke or a cry. All he did was stare, stare into the nothingness of his mother's post-being. He could hardly think, as if his mind was blown to pieces just as hers was. Such a strange sensation it was, not to think; he thought all of the time without trouble, so much then that it felt like he was mindless. Perhaps he had simply misplaced it? Yes, that was it, he had simply lost it. He had lost his mind.

The world was silent, and the wind was a song. Three gusts and a loud whoosh; a song of sorrow, a partita of pain, a caprice of cacophony. All was slow, all was sluggish, like in his head. In a belated scramble, his father reached out to Christa, but was grabbed from behind by the same officer that had taken her down and was dragged away by the shoulders. He screamed, he sobbed, he cursed the Nazis for splitting his family like a loose seam into a gargantuan hole that then erupted his soul.

And yet, Oliver heard none, yet for the faint humming of the wind and a high pitched screech. He looked over his shoulder at his father being dragged away, and he slowly started to hear again, beginning to listen and hear an echo as his father sobbed loudly, " _My wife, my son! Don't succumb to them!"_

He could only hope not to disappoint his father, for he would be cross with him.

At that moment, it was as if Oliver's mind had woken back up from a deep sleep, and everything hit him in a hard, harsh realization. It was so overwhelming, so horrid that the only thing he knew how to do was cry, not cry out, but simply sob, and sob, and sob.

* * *

Dachau was Oliver's place of residence for two years; he didn't consider it a home of any sort to himself or any of its misfortunate residents. He was orphaned, of course, since had arrived, witnessing his mother's dramatic death and his father's disappearance, for which was still relevant, as he had not seen him since and doubted he would any time soon.

He was allowed to keep his violin at the camp, and he improved dramatically, playing songs and solos of all sorts he had heard previously by ear, as he had heard a large assortment of pieces for the violin. He had also grown more accustomed to the nerves of the stage, and enjoyed it more, the thrill of the performance.

The inmates that listened to him practice often praised him, but not like his teacher, who pointed out the faults in his playing. Perhaps it was because they were an audience, he thought, but it was perhaps that, with the five years under his belt hence, he had weaved out most of those imperfections; but he still had to clean up _The Dance of the Goblins_ quite a bit.

One day, a year in, a demand was cast upon him. " _Boy!_ By the devil, play your damned violin today or I'll feel so compelled to finally put a bullet to your head," a Schutzstaffel officer exploded, pinching the boy's shoulder. Oliver made no attempt to disobey and picked up his instrument, not bothering to even tune. He immediately started to play an obsession. He couldn't seem to decide on how he would play the tune from Bach, but he eventually created an angry, grief-filled concoction of sound. He had heard it once before, played by a member of the orchestra back in Dresden a year prior, when he was just a regular boy, at heart.

Suddenly the anger turned to pure sorrow. The sorrow that emitted from his instrument engulfed him, and he was taken aback. He tried very hard to keep himself from joining the bitter weeping of his violin, but he could not show any kind of weakness to the SS. Still, his violin sang on.

He didn't finish the sonata, but stopped midway where it sounded like an appropriate place to do so. He dared to glance up at the officer, and was relieved to see a haughty look upon his stern face. "Good, do the same tomorrow evening. You'll live another day." He retired to his comrades, who were smoking and drinking heavily in their chairs. They shooed Oliver out into the cold, dreary courtyard.

* * *

The next day, after Oliver had finished eating his measly portion of bread, he was taken over by a different officer, and he was accompanied by the same one who demanded music from him the evening before.

"You live because you can play the violin, but you denied to play for this man last night. He's told me all about it. From your fault, you will be punished, _boy_ ," the commander growled through his thick mustache. Oliver restrained himself from emitting any form of shock when he looked over to the smug-faced officer from the day before. "And to think, you could have been freed for your skill!"

Oliver could have screamed. Freedom? It was a myth to some but it was very true. Some were taken out by families who used bribery, but that was all the boy had heard. It was because of the _Arbeit Macht Frei_ gate which marked that freedom could be pursued and obtained, if only by the lucky few that did get it.

They took him to the prison block and left him in a room so small that he could only stand, and where his shoulders always touched the walls. Barely any sunlight would stream through the palm-sized, barred window on the wooden door. They gave him even less food, it seemed, than when he was just a regular prisoner.

He wished he could have asked why they had actually detained him, but kept his mouth shut for fear of anything potentially worse than the cramped prison cell. He could feel his own breath against his face, and he grew very anxious over the course of three days confined in that way.

On the third day, Oliver overheard the commander and his subordinate speaking in hushed tones. "…e's dangerous, what if when we do it, he casts a spell…be cautious…how do you kno…the _X_ on his shirt…"

 _So they're scared of what I might do,_ he thought to himself. _And what about an_ X _?_ He looked down, observing his prison badge: his prison number, '92081,' a black, inverted triangle, and a black 'X' beneath it.

Only moments later did they take him from his cell and situate him in a small room. They put him in a chair and had two guards at his shoulders, holding him down if he were to retaliate and try to stand; he wouldn't have, even if he was given the chance.

"Like with all of our _magical_ guests, we strive to learn from them," a voice echoed against the walls, its owner marching from the shadows. "We hear that you can conjure ghost-like apparitions with your music. Care to elaborate?"

Oliver had never known this. "I don't know what you're talking about, Herr-" he tried, but was silenced with a slap to the cheek.

"Like I said, _elaborate_ , or I won't be so forgiving." The man straightened his cap and leaned close to the boy's face. Oliver glared back into his eyes.

"What, are you implying that your officers are seeing hallucinations? Maybe they should be admitted as prisoners if their genes are so faulty that they should see things that aren't really there-!"

"-ENOUGH! Kerner," he growled, turning to a subordinate in the room. "turn on the chair, make him howl!"

Oliver strained his head to see what the man went to do behind him. A plug was inserted into an electrical port connected to his chair. The men holding him down instead let go and put his arms and legs in cuffs around the arms and legs of the chair. Kerner pulled down a switch on the wall and a surging pain ripped through the Oliver's body, causing him to convulse and shake as if a troll had taken him in his arms and started to bash him repeatedly against a wall.

They electrocuted him three times over before Oliver had decided to give up anything to them. He had screamed so much that his throat was raw.

"M-maybe I can, but I've never noticed any ghosts when I play, I focus on t-the music," he sputtered, still out of breath and twitching from the aftermath of the session. The Obergefreiter, as the head officer was called, peered down on Oliver once more.

"There have also been accusations that you have made other inmate's food portions larger by just looking at them. What do you say to that?"

Again, Oliver was confused. Sure, he had felt pity on the other prisoners around him, but whatever the Obergefreiter asked of him, he wasn't sure if he had even done it or not. "I-I'm not sure-"

"Kerner, the chair, again-"

"No, wait!" Oliver yelled suddenly, begging not to be electrocuted again. "Yes, yes, I know, I've done it! I felt sorry for them, so I made their food larger!" Kerner took his hand off of the lever.

"What else can you do with your powers?" the Obergefreiter asked slowly.

Oliver paused, deciding to just give the man what he wanted so he wouldn't be hurt anymore. "I can brew potions and produce spells from a wand. That's it."

"Good," the man said, pacing. "We happen to have confiscated a wand from another inmate. Demonstrate for us what you can do." Kerner disappeared through the door momentarily, and returned, carrying a long, grainy wand. The two other men in the room who had previously held Oliver to the chair took his right arm and unlocked the sheath. Kerner gave him the wand, but as he did, he revealed a gun from his holster. He checked that there was ammunition inside the barrel, cocked it, and put it to Oliver's head.

"Now, we can't let you kill us with that thing, boy," Kerner chuckled, a thin grimace pasted upon his papery lips. The gun was so close that the cold metal touched his scalp. Shaking, Oliver held up the wand in front of him and remembered one of the spells his father had taught him when he was younger.

" _Reducto!_ " he exclaimed, pointing his wand and aiming the curse at a bloodied, steel boot in the corner where a rather large bucket, knives, and a whip were also stored. The boot suddenly was hit by a blue light that came from the tip of Oliver's wand and was reduced to a fine, gray ash, made up in a neat, cone-shaped pile on the ground. Kerner and the two guards were stunned by shock at what they had just witnessed, while the Obergefreiter was indifferent, a pleased look on his iron face. Kerner almost let his arm go limp and propped it back up against Oliver's head as he craned his neck to get a better glimpse at the scene.

"Now perform the same spell, but on him," the Obergefreiter ordered, ushering one of the manservants to stand in front of the boy's chair. One sheepishly walked up and stood, giving continual glances at his superior but saying no words.

Oliver wasn't keen on finding out what exactly would happen if he were to induct this curse upon a man, although he had a slight inclination on what the outcome might have been. Reluctantly, he pointed his wand and once again said, " _Reducto!"_

Immediately, the same thing happened to the guard, and he fell to the floor in a pile of dust in a great scream. The ash was not so neat that time, and it spread throughout the hair in a small, confined cloud, almost outlining where the man had stood before his demise. Now Oliver was stunned, beginning to embrace what he had just done.

"Good," the Obergefreiter chimed gruffly. "For giving us this valuable information you possess, you'll be returned to the camp. But, if you conjure any more ghosts or enlarge any food items again, you will be killed on sight. Do you understand, boy?"

"Yes, Herr," Oliver breathed, dropping the wand on the ground with a hollow clatter.

* * *

 **misc. notes:**

Die Magische Versammlung is German for the magic assembly; exactly like the UK's Ministry of Magic

Die Magische Polizei is German for the magic police; equivalent to the UK's aurors.

Die Geheimen Truppen is German for the Secret Police

Zerbrechlich is German for fragile

Obergefreiter is German for corporal


	2. The Kristallnacht

**Chapter II : The Kristallnacht**

It was forbidden to question the officers; forbidden to do worship of any kind; to make too much noise; to speak or move out of place; forbidden to ask questions, forbidden to read; all books were burned. No one celebrated birthdays, or births, and no one dared to smile or show a single tooth, if they had any. The gas chambers were used for prisoners who were too weak, defiant, or knew too much. Others were shot and hanged in the bunkers or stables.

He had been tortured several times, mostly when officers would encircle him, each with a dagger in their hand, and push him around, jabbing and slicing his flesh with their blades each time he bounced around to them; it was a terrible game. For that reason, the boy had many scars along his back and torso already, and he was only nine.

After the two years were up and a significantly larger number of inmates were present at Dachau, Oliver, along with many others, were told they were to be relocated to another camp in Poland, where they would receive more work. Oliver had to toil in the ditches during the day, clearing out dirt and debris and sometimes pulling others' bodies out of them if they happened to fall over dead while working. He would have to drag them out to the crematorium himself and let them tumble inside of the chamber, forever lost.

Oliver was told to leave his instrument behind, where the guard would not unlikely burn it to soot. And so he did as he was ordered, and left his beloved instrument behind with a painful goodbye. That means of creation was his only source of output, and one of the only ways to create inside of a camp such as Dachau. It was surprising that they had let him keep the violin, but other inmates made a penal band, playing parade music and the like. Sometimes Oliver would join in and play by ear, but they were always the same few pieces of music, military marches, five of them.

* * *

The Kristallnacht shattered around Oliver as officers escorted them through the town to their cattle car. Houses were torn down, shops were smashed, books were ablaze in pyres and synagogues were burned to the ground so far that they could not possibly be rebuilt from the rubble alone. Jews were being handled left and right, yellow six-pointed stars on their breasts. They were executed with rifles against a wall or arrested and thrown into Dachau. It was total chaos and Oliver was smack in the middle of the entire thing, witnessing the catastrophe unfold.

All of a sudden, an officer who had just murdered a round of Jews turned, his dark, sunken eyes void of any kind of conscience, feeling, or remorse possible for any normal human being. The face of Oliver's father shone through the smoke and sheen, not unlike how a headlight would glare at a deer in the middle of the road. He marched forward, his boots smashing through the thick mud and crushed glass. He reached the group of prisoners, saluted, shouted "Heil Hitler!" to the higher ranking officer, and stepped up to his son.

Whatever Oliver saw at first when he looked at his father's eyes from that previous distance away was only moreso close up; he looked like a corpse, a drone, worse than the dead figures roaming the grounds of Dachau. He was brainwashed, a perfect soldier for the Nazi army.

Arlo hoisted his rifle over his shoulder and swiftly reached for Oliver's neck, squeezing and choking him with a hatred so severe that could not have been shown by a father alone. Arlo remembered his son, but not well. Oliver's face soon turned a nasty shade of red before the leading officer shouted for Arlo to discontinue his punishment of the prisoner.

Oliver gasped for breath as the group started to move again and his father was left behind, watching with those dead shark eyes. He looked back, as if trying to make sure that had really been his father; no, it wasn't. In body, it was, but not in mind. The boy was pushed along to follow in the throng.

They had arrived at the tracks where there was no Kristallnacht taking place; no other officers, no Jews except for the few in the penal group; there was a serene silence upon the place, and Oliver felt the most at peace since he was six years old, frankly. He rode the same kind of train care to Poland, as crowded and stinky as the last one two years ago. He must not have remembered it from his first ride, but people around him simply dropped like flies on the way there, and he had to support their bodies against his own stunted one as they rode on along the bumpy tracks. He took whatever they had in their pockets: a mouthful of bread, their spoon, whatever warmth their flesh retained, usually just an hour's worth. Then it would fade away to leave a cold, lifeless form, nothing more than a sack of soil, as it would be in years to come once rotten and decayed in the earth.

His thoughts hadn't been reduced to nothingness, not yet. The death, the blood, and the depression hadn't drowned him in deep water. He was a boy, but he had already grown up. He felt old, but only in the mind. His body was young, springy, although nought with life or energy. Life and mirth had been drained, long gone, sucked up by the straw from the Nazi's drink of sabotage and desolation, which they became drunk on. He still held a smoldering match, but only a whisper of a flame was left, for that song of the wind had drowned it and snuffed it nearly out. A flint, perhaps, would be a useful thing to find in the trash and rubble of the muck underfoot.

Another forty-eight hours later, the train arrived at Auschwitz I, the camp that the blockführer mentioned. It was, perhaps, darker and colder than Dachau.

The doors to the train care suddenly opened, only revealing what light that a lantern carried by an officer gave off. "Get off, you're walking the rest of the way!"

The words ' _ARBEIT MACHT FREI'_ were placed over the entrance gate; work wouldn't be able to set anyone free in this place. It would only be able to destroy.

The whole camp's ground consisted of mud and no grass, and the buildings were whitewashed with iron bars in the windows in the place of glass. Surrounding the camp was a wall so high that one would need a ladder of three men holding each other by the shoulders, one on top of the other, to make it to the top where electrified barbed wire sat, waiting like a dormant, yet deadly, sitting duck. Guard towers struck every hundred feet, topped with a rifleman, still like a statue with their caps almost covering their eyes; they didn't need to see, all they needed was an implication.

" _Achtung!_ " a kapo yelled in a hoarse voice, "You will be inspected for selection!"

They stood in a block formation which was much more organized than Dachau; this time it was females in front, males in back. He looked straight ahead of him, boring into the head of the man standing before him who had his back turned to him, shaking.

And then, he looked up. He didn't see anything in the clouds at first, but he suddenly felt a cold chill sweep up his very spine, driving so far into him that he felt he wouldn't ever be warm again. He distantly felt more depressed, and he, somehow, felt like he wanted to curl up and cry. He restrained himself and stood still as an officer passed him.

Oliver relaxed as he passed. Upon further inspection of the clouds, he realized that they weren't moving due to the wind or a storm; figures danced drowsily in the atmosphere, like cloaked vultures, circling around to find their next prey.

The man whose head Oliver had previously been staring at suddenly fell, and didn't get up. An officer turned around and started towards the weakling, but stopped at the sight of one of the deathly entities diving down for the kill, one after another, sucking whatever life remained in the man's body until at last, his soul trickled out of his mouth, and into the _thing's_. The man still lived, but breathed slowly; up and down went his sides. The officer, calm that the vultures had gone, quickly shot the man in the head, finally ending his life. Whatever they were, most of the other prisoners hadn't seen it, except for himself and the officer; that he was certain.

A man with a dirty, white coat inspected people at each line, making notes as he did. Some of the time he would check something on his clipboard after he had inspected an inmate, other times not. As if he had apparated closer, Oliver was then the one being inspected by the doctor.

His name tag read _Dr. Mengele_. His hair was an oily black, and his eyebrows were bushy like a raccoon's tail, minus the rings. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, and his overall appearance was quite pallor, and terrifying as a ghost. Once he had come over to Oliver and gotten a nod from his partner following him like a dog, he gave the most freakish grin. He wrote some notes, glanced over him again without a word, and moved on to the next prisoner.

They could have been standing there for an entire day and Oliver wouldn't have been surprised. By the time they were instructed to move along to a certain barrack a quarter of the way across the camp, his legs were tired and aching. Many of the inmates had been taken to one side, while others stayed within his own group; they were dead men walking, all of them; they were to be burnt as if made from paper.

His lower legs and feet were caked with an oozy, gray mud by the time they had reached the barrack known as the _sauna_. It was not a sauna founded for luxury, rather for sanitation and preparation. Per instruction, he took off all of his clothes until he was bare, and hung them on a hook with his shoes on the floor underneath.

They banged Oliver's arm on a table and stigmatized him with the number _92081_. Dot by dot was he branded with rounded, lazy precision. A straight edge razor cut the hair from his head, short to a point and deposited in a sack. And, as if in defiance, his hair grew back to its original length by five minutes, just after he had been washed in a stinging liquid, followed by a shower of water cold as ice.

Then they handed Oliver a pair of striped pajamas, his prison uniform, and wooden clogs for shoes. The pajamas bore his number on the chest, along with a large, inverted black triangle and an 'X' beneath its solitary bottom point. The pajamas held no warmth and were rough to the touch.

The sky was dark by the time selection had been concluded and sanitation was done. The kapo yelled harshly for formation to be conducted after a terribly loud bell rung; what a horribly nuisance it was. The kapo came down the line of prisoners in the chilled night, growling like a dog as he went by. He warned, "You have to be strong, look strong. If you look weak or fall they'll take you away. Stand straight, look up, and bear through it! Don't show them any sign of weakness!" As if to prove his point, he found a frail-looking young man and beat him down to the ground until he quivered like a maggot.

More lines of prisoners came until they formed one large mass in a straight block formation going on for rows and rows. They had gathered into a courtyard, where there were a few barracks and a kind of wooden platform with a beam of wood going up and then making a bend to become horizontal. Oliver had never seen one of these contraptions before, but his thoughts were soon turned as a stench intruded his nostrils, one of rotting meat when it goes bad, all slimy and jelly-like. He looked around with only his eyes, seeing that they were finally bringing in the bodies for roll call like they did every night at Dachau. Two of those bodies laid in a heap in the places where they should have stood if they had been alive. With another glance around, he saw more than just the two in front of him. Many bodies laid where they should have been standing. Their lifeless eyes bored into his soul, and one had an empty, gaping socket leaking blood and water where he had been shot. It just stared at him. The kapos went down the lines, counting each prisoner and dead body they came across in their line and keeping record on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. The kapos counted the dead bodies of the people that died in work that day along with the ones that had survived.

Officers walked around with dogs at the leash, and the kapos reported back to them the amount of prisoners were there. Most of them were there, but there was one body missing. Two hours it took for the missing body to be recovered, and then three more it took to count everybody two more times over simply to punish them.

By the end of the five hours, Oliver's legs were aching more fiercely than before and his calves burned. The SS had taken seven live prisoners from their spots in line and put them on the platform, where ropes hung from the beam above them. Oliver was starting to get the idea of what the platform and beams were for. They took the prisoners and tied the ropes around their skinny necks and the next thing he knew, the platform beneath them had been taken away and they were all hanging from their throats, choking for a few minutes in the most disgusting way, gurgling and airy sounds emitting from their dry mouths. That was what they called Sunday entertainment.

"What do you think they tried to do to deserve that, _Schweine?_ " an officer standing on the platform asked blatantly, waiting. "They tried to conduct a resistance!" He shouted once more. He did so with ease, as if he wasn't bothered in even the slightest bit by the dead bodies only inches away from his face. "Let this be a lesson to all of you. This is why you will _never_ escape. You'll end up like them."

They were then dismissed. Supper was a mere portion of slop, as if someone had become sick and deposited it in a bowl for the Oliver to eat. It consisted of a stinky broth and rotten cabbage, with a floater that looked remotely like the bottom of a radish. The bowl was half empty, as he had been towards the back of the line waiting for food. He sat down on the bed he was given and took his spoon, dipping it into the lukewarm concoction, and tasted it; simply put, he would have been better off drinking the piss of a goblin, but there was nothing else to eat, lest he wanted to go hungry. He had no choice, and drained the bowl quickly, ending with a bad taste in his mouth and a hunger that lingered.

With his bowl and spoon in hand, he watched the prisoners in his block. They walked around like zombies, half dead humans with no purpose. Others sat and rocked back and forth, screaming in whisper to their God, his God. 'Why hast Thou forsaken us?' they pleaded, scratching at their eyes like caged animals. The eyes which they pried at were like small creatures in the caverns of their sockets, cowering and forbidding themselves to look anywhere other than the ground and the insides of their lids. The sorrow was hanging stagnant in the air like the stink around them, so strong that the ghostly vultures circling above in the clouds occasionally swooped down, feeding off of a prisoner's woes and then joining its flock once more. That was not living, but what came closest to hell on earth.

A dog sounded outside, and a boy followed, scrambling away from the horrid creature to take refuge inside of the dusty, murky barrack. The boy looked back before turning to Oliver; he was about as young as he, but with dark red, curly hair and misty blue eyes. Those eyes could have been so much brighter, he thought, but they were surrounded by a grayness which sat above the boy like a stormcloud.

He scooted over in his spot, providing a place for the other boy to sit, which he did, timidly. It took courage, but he finally managed to mutter quietly, in a hushed breath, "My name is Oliver."

" _Sono Hugo_ ," the other replied.


	3. The Ride of the Broomsticks

**Chapter III : The Ride of the Broomsticks**

 **Our second protagonist is the main focus of this chapter, which I have a normal length of about 6k words. The last one was quite a bit shorter and I apologize for that. It's just how that one turned out.**

 **Also, if anyone's out there, let's do a question of the week kind of thing to prompt more reviews. I have a single one, which is a start, and those make me very happy. So here's the question this week: Where did I get the original inspiration for the this chapter's name from? If you are familiar with classical music you might get this easier since it's the name of a piece.**

 **Cap**

Perhaps it was from his father, with the way animals flocked to him with no certain inclination. Or maybe it was his mother, an extraordinary businesswoman, with the way she sold high end witch's and wizard's fashion all over the magical world of Europe. Or possibly, it was his grandparents, with their renowned wand-making skills going back for hundreds of generations. It could have been from all three, but Hugo Corvo was a highly intelligent, highly likeable young wizard. One that his older brother, Giannino, was terribly jealous of.

Growing up in northern Italy, in a small town just outside of Tolmezzo, the boys learned about animals and wands from their father's side of the family and negotiated and spoke English with their mother. Amelia Corvo née Hawkins was originally from that country, growing up in London with two deeply respectable parents. They were rich, retired government officials, and knew both the minister of magic and Winston Churchill well. The boy's father, Pasquale, came straight from the heart of Italy. He was sent to Hogwarts under conditions concerning the other two Italian schools of magic: Benale and Grande Chouette for Girls. The latter had been closed for construction, being an ancient building, and the former was crowded with all of the girls from the neighboring school. Pasquale, known as Patrick at Hogwarts, and Amelia became the best of friends; they fell in love, married, and gave birth to Giannino. Ten years later Hugo was born.

That was where things spiraled downhill for poor Giannino. He fell into the background, a shadow of his younger brother, who had a savant-like aptitude for magic. Usually a young witch or wizard would display magical abilities around seven years of age. Hugo, however, did so at the age of five. So as a gift from his grandfather, he received his wand early. Giannino had gotten his at the normal age and wasn't bad at magic by any means, but couldn't rid himself of the jealousy that ate away at his heart. He had tried to love his brother but the want, the hunger in him became too great, and he was filled with hatred.

One day, when Amelia and Pasquale were both busy, they dropped their sons off at their grandparents' wand shop. Fully aware of Hugo's extraordinary magical abilities, Nonno and Nonna had the little boy try every wand in the shop, one after the other. None of them seemed to work at all, and the most that Hugo ever got out of a wand was a single spark, but nothing powerful or spectacular. Meanwhile, Giannino sat alone by himself on the porch, not having any part in the petty game they played. They all loved little Hugo better than him. He was the prodigy, and he was the best. Himself? He was nothing, an echo, or simply a wisp of smoke.

* * *

Hugo and his grandparents ventured further into the shop. He peered at all of the wonderful contraptions and carving machines, at things that spun and twirled, and at others that made ticking noises labeled with large stamps shouting, ' _DANGEROUS!_ '

One box was chained down, unmoving and silent. Though when the boy looked at it, it shuddered and rattled. It spooked Hugo so much that he ran to hide behind Nonno, clutching the old man's knee against his head.

"Silly boy, it won't hurt you," he reassured the youngling, ruffling his russet locks. But the old man hatched a cheeky idea. "You know, _nipote_ , the wand in this box moves every single time you step into this shop. Why not try it out? It might be calling for you."

The old man hobbled over to the wooden box, Hugo still clinging to his leg, and rifled through his pockets for the key. He found the thing, a tarnished old skeleton, skinny and white as a bone, and unlocked the box from the table and the lock from the box, holding the wand out to the boy.

"This is my experiment I've been working on for years. I don't know how I did it, but I got thestral hairs to pair with yew wood; twelve inches and three quarters, sturdy as a mule. I don't know if it works, but if it doesn't, then I'll break it in two. It holds too much power for my hands."

Hugo took the wand in his palm and flicked it; all of a sudden, a ghostly silver light appeared from the end of the wand, emanating like a dying star out into all corners of the room in a dramatic blast; then it was gone, just as fast as it had come.

* * *

Giannino glanced through the window into the shop; a faint booming sound had come from inside, and a whoop of surprise from Nonno erupted from the same place. _They must of had_ some _breakthrough_ , he thought, rolling his eyes and sitting back down in the wooden chair; he continued to whittle, carving a hand grenade from willow.

* * *

Immediately after the initial outburst the wand gave when it reacted to the boy's touch, the light cleared, and in its place was the figure of a crow, which fluttered about. Nonno gasped; in the Corvo clan, every group of offspring birthed by a couple was to have one child which could create a patronus in the form of a crow, hence the family name. It was considered both an honor and great luck.

The old man, stunned, watched the patronus as it started to dissipate; it was soon gone. Oftentimes these children who could summon a crow did so without trying when picking up a wand. "Now, listen Hugo," he murmured to the boy. "Don't tell anyone of the wand, do you understand? It is too dangerous for people to know how powerful it is, lest they should try and steal it. It will stay visible to only you if they don't know and are malicious in their ways. Just say it's unicorn if they ask, understand me? In fact, try not to let them know at all."

"Yes sir," the boy stuttered out, still in a state of awe. Nonna had witnessed the entire thing and clutched her weak, old heart, wonderstruck with the little child. She went over and hugged him, very proud of her beloved _nipote_.

"My boy, you'll bring more good fortune to this family yet!"

* * *

' _Pezzo di merda!_ ' Giannino cursed to himself, turning from the window which he had been gazing through. That was exactly why he hated his brother. He was the special one, the one who was revered above all others in his extensive, extensive family. If he was such a failure of a wizard, he'd simply join the army and forget about magic; muggles and their means of warfare had always interested him, anyway. Fighting without wands must have been much more… brutal. After all, he was old enough to enlist, and Italy was heavily involved with the civil war in Spain, so they would need more troops. There were also rumors going around that Mussolini was going to ally with the Nazis soon and was looking for recruits. He simply didn't see why he couldn't let magic go, since it was as meaningless to him as La Befana or the Wild Man, which, of course, he hadn't believed in since he was about as young as his brother was then. Perhaps Il Duce may have use for him yet.

He took the carving in his hand and held it up to the light of the afternoon sun. That was it. He'd leave, and he'd never have to think about his horrible little brother again, or anyone that still worshipped him. He was fed up with it, fed up so much that he'd rather drink the brine of a barrel of olives than even utter a word between he and his brother, the swine.

Giannino gripped the wooden grenade in his hand and snorted like a bull, throwing it as hard and as far as his arm could carry it, up an arc like the sun's circle, and down with the moon, down into a puddle, which boiled with the impact of the explosion of fury. Liquid fire reached up high and higher into the air, until the flames met the ground again in an evil kiss of endless fate.

And so it was that Giannino sealed his fate and his heart to a path of wickedness. And Hugo never told anyone of the make up or the origin of his wand, as no one was able to see in order to ask.

* * *

"Mama, why was I not allowed to tell my friends that we are leaving?" asked Hugo, then six years old.

"My little _angelo_ , it's for grownup reasons, you shall know when you are older," Mama answered, still shoving some clothing into a trunk from Hugo's closet in a rush.

"Mama, can I help you pack?"

"You can go through your toys and find one to take with us, and we will get you some new ones when we arrive at our new home."

Hugo nodded, headed to his wooden toy box, and opened it. After a moment of searching for his favorite toy, he held it up: a stuffed wolf named Isabelle; she had buttons for eyes and a straw tail, and she smelled like the earth, rich and wonderful. Although she was old and raggedy, he loved her dearly. Sometimes he would pretend that they were laying out in the field behind his house, basking in the dying light of dusk, or running around the neighbor's vineyards or olive orchards, eating fruit and racing each other down the rows of plants.

He looked at Isabelle and hugged her tight, smiling brightly. "Mama, where are we going?"

Mama pushed her braided hair back from her shoulder and picked up the clothes she had gathered. " _Inghilterra_ , my dear. We're going to live with my parents there. It will be beautiful, only colder during the winter, and more rainy. On the way we'll stop in _Francia._ They have good food, and I'm sure you'll love it just as much as the food we have here, my boy."

"But your cooking is the best, no one cooks better than you!" Hugo laughed, dancing around with Isabelle cradled in his arms like a babe.

Mama let out a laugh and a nervous smile. "I'll make you some _minestrone_ when we get there, then."

Hugo let out a little exclamation of joy, petting his little stuffed wolf.

Pasquale finished packing the bags downstairs and checked them for everything his family might need. He was heard stomping up the stairs. "All set?" he sighed, reaching the landing.

"Yes, now the brooms." Amelia strode to the closet and gathered them up; two old, weathered broomsticks. "Hugo will ride with me, then?"

" _Si_ , let's go."

* * *

Hugo and his family left their house behind to his father's parents, who had to stay behind because they could not leave the wand shop and Nonno's unstable experiments. Someone could infiltrate it and destroy everything, or an experiment could go off and explode, causing a disaster. Paired with the fact that they were quite old, Hugo's grandparents had no choice but to remain in Italy.

And so they embarked into the sky, due west. Unbeknownst to them, the wind was quite strong blowing to the east, and they were quickly buffeted off course after only an hour of flying. Pasquale shook his compass, tapped it with his wand, but it wouldn't work. Amelia, one arm tightly bound around Hugo, exclaimed, "Oh! We're lost, aren't we?"

"Bah! It will be fine, my love, don't worry about a thing."

For two more hours they wandered in the sky, unable to see the ground due to a thick mist that seemed to engulf their very eyes. It was impossible to see at all, and Pasquale soon gave up hope in ever finding his sense of direction.

After what seemed like an entire sun cycle, the mist cleared a little, only to show the floating figures of three other wizards, each dressed in the same green military garb, before them. Hugo didn't recognize him at first, but when the ringleader of the three spoke, he immediately knew who it was: his own brother.

"My son? Giannino? Is that you?" Pasquale asked, as if in a dream.

"Amelia, Pasquale," Giannino addressed them, not bothering to call them his mother and father. "Give up the boy and you may live."

The two looked at each other with dread upon their faces and looked back with obvious disdain; Pasquale sat up straighter.

"Hand over the child, and we can escort you back to your home. A young, _intelligent_ wizard like him, should be handled with care. Not that you can provide care, but our great leaders, Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, and Hideki Tojo could find his power quite useful, so hand the boy over." Giannino became more forceful with his words.

Pasquale only replied with "Giannino-"

" _Lieutenant Colonel_ _Corvo_ , to you, _cafoni_ _._ I should have you written up for such disrespect," Giannino took up his wand. "I will give you until the count of ten to hand over the child." A pause.

"Ten - " Suddenly, Pasquale and Amelia glimpsed at each other, both remembering what they had said to each other before they left Italy, if something were to happen.

' _What about Hugo? If you have to protect us and I must flee, I don't want him to grow up fatherless.'_

' _He will be fine, I mean this seriously. You know my advice on girls, does he really need that?'_

"Nine - "

' _Your advice is no better than your father's - I'm not sure how you and him got so lucky.'_

' _You see, it comes with perks. It shall be fine, you are a glorious mother. And if he_ does _need a father figure, you can always find another partner. You are such a b-beautiful, wonderful woman… I am sure you can easily find another man to love.'_

"Eight - "

' _I wouldn't want to find another, I love you!'_

' _I know, but do it for Hugo.'_

"Seven - "

' _But what if Hugo forgets you? What if he only remembers the other man?'_

' _Never let him forget, tell him stories… stories of us. Tell him of how I embarrassed myself in front of you at Hogwarts.'_

"Six - "

' _Tell him about the time where we met under the fig tree and it started raining, when I had to sacrifice my book for you to stay dry.'_

"Five - "

' _Tell him about the time when we helped the centaur to get free when his foot was caught in the bear trap.'_

"Four - "

' _Tell him about the time when we rode a unicorn to our special spot on the beach.'_

"Three - "

' _Tell him that he is the most blessed thing in our lives.'_

"Two - "

' _Tell him that I love him so much, and I could never be more proud of him.'_

"One - " Giannino motioned to his subordinates. "Take the child by force."

The two other wizards raced over, but Pasquale yelled out spells left and right. The four men battled, nearly at each other's throats with each of their wands, brandishing them like swords. They flew gracefully in the sky, although what they shouted quite the opposite of grace. Amelia took her cue and raced in the opposite direction, Hugo in her arms, and Giannino on her tail.

"Mother, why?! Why must you protect him? If you give him to me then we can be a family, a good family! I will come back and live with you. I can show you my new beloved. I can show you how wonderful and special _I_ am!" Giannino screamed out, so sad and full of rage that he thought his mother loved Hugo more than him. " _I_ was your first child, _I_ am suppose to be the good one, the one that does everything first, the one who does everything right!"

Amelia slowed down, but took out her wand and looked at Giannino cautiously.

"You are my son, my beautiful boy. Why would I love your brother more than you? I love you equally. Your brother might have all of this talent, but I don't think you understood that in the moments that I spent watching him to make sure he didn't do some magic that could hurt himself, you, your father, your grandparents, anyone who was around, I was doing it for all of us, not because I loved him any more than you. Giannino, I _do_ love you. We named you after your great grandfather, he was a very skilled Auror who helped defeat many powerful villains. But I see that instead of fighting them, you _became_ one of them. And that is why I will _never_ hand him over. If you love me, _and_ your brother, you would let us go!" she cried, readying to attack if needed.

"I'm sorry mother," he raised his wand. " _Avada Kedavra._ "

With her final breath, she fell to the ground like an angel falling from grace, her arms and legs coiling and contorting in the strong wind that buffeted the treetops. The looked like she was an acrobat, poised in midair, ready to land in and invisible safety net that she had no doubt would cushion her fall from death.

" _NO!_ " came a scream from Pasquale, watching as the love of his life, falling to the ground, perished on the earth. He could have saved her if only he had tried harder; it was his fault and his alone. Oh! How he loved her!

When the curse befell him too, he couldn't have embraced the warmth of a fire in the hearth any more fondly than he did that malediction. At least, he thought, he would be with her. What little thought was left in him before the curse finally reached his body registered that then, after he had died, little Hugo would be alone, captured by his greedy brother. He died with guilt and a harrowing distress deeply imbedded within his heart.

* * *

Hugo went into a spiral of pain and despair. His turmoil knew no bounds, and all he could care to focus on was the fact that he had just witnessed his own parents' deaths. Flying up in the sky, he grabbed the branch he rode upon and steadied himself; he knew how to fly a broomstick, but his small fingers slipped. And then he fell, only to be caught a few moments later by Giannino. Was he even his brother anymore? Maybe if he were to imagine it, he could make himself believe that this man wasn't related to him by blood. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he'd be back in his home in Tolmezzo and he'd be sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for father to come home from work and for his mother to finish the minestrone soup.

Alas, his dreams were not reality, and he was being flown off to unknown places by a man whom he couldn't believe was his own kin. But he still, somewhere in his heart, felt an ounce of loyalty towards the one whom he had always looked up to, whom he had always loved.

Giannino.

* * *

When Hugo was able to figure out his surroundings, he found himself at a place quite unfamiliar. It was a basement of sorts; some place that reeked of blood and felt like death. He had no recollection of any happiness for some time, dwelling on the horrific deaths of his parents and the stormy atmosphere that engulfed his mind. _Go, begone!_ He thought to the awful thoughts, which scoured his spirit in torrents.

"Now," said a putrid, hissing voice. It was in German, but Hugo knew enough of the language from living close to the border of Austria to understand it to an extent. "Tell me, what exactly is this magic you can perform?"

Hugo felt a gag being released from around his mouth. "N-Nothing, what are you talking about?" The man slapped him, and Hugo already felt tears stinging at his eyes. Still, he refused to speak; they would want to use his powers for bad. His father had always told him that his abilities were special, more so than any child. He said to use them for good.

The man with the cross around his neck was impatient still, and suddenly took the boy's neck in a cold, choking grip. "You know fully well what I mean, boy, and you had better answer my questions, otherwise you'll end up someplace worse than the ground," he threatened in a low growl. He failed to relinquish his grip around Hugo's neck.

" _Obergefreiter Edelstein_ ," another officer spoke up, a timid shakiness among the other tones of his voice. "Perhaps we could follow the methods of Herr Scharff and think this through before making any hasty decisions-"

"I DON'T WANT YOUR _SUGGESTIONS_ , MÖLLER!" Edelstein shouted, giving one last squeeze to Hugo's throat before finally letting go. It left him him coughing and trying to catch his breath without his hands to wrap around his abdomen- they were bound with rope behind his back. Giannino, who was also standing in the back, gave Möller a few choice words.

He sighed forcefully. "No matter. If you won't talk when I ask, maybe you will when these fools are done with you," said the obergefreiter; he walked a few meters away, allowing Giannino and Möller to go over to the boy and start to hurt him, punching him if he did not speak. Hugo did not tell them a word.

Before any collateral damage had been taken, Edelstein had his lackys cease their beating. Hugo sighed with relief, but was much more vulnerable after the attack.

Obergefreiter Edelstein kept trying to force information out of him, getting more specialized in his demands. Once the beatings started again, the punishments inflicted upon him would only get worse; soon they had cast a horrible torturing curse upon him. Eventually Hugo spat out the information they wanted, strike after strike of each convulsion, words distorted by sobs. They asked him of all aspects of magic, and then more into the governmental systems and how wizards hid themselves from muggle intelligence. Hugo didn't particularly know much about that topic, but nonetheless gave them the answers. He rambled on about memory charms, cloaking spells, magical creatures, and anti-muggle enchantments. Perhaps that was all there was to know, but what he knew was theirs, then, even if it was incomplete.

The latter part of the interrogation session with Edelstein was mostly a blur to Hugo, but afterwards, they took him out into the woods, presumably. Though his head was covered by a sack, he heard leaves crunching.

The officers who handled the boy threw him down on the ground. He first whipped up his hands and tore the cover from his head before hearing a lock, which was attached to the door of a kind of cage they had put him inside of, and then grabbed the bars as they walked away, back into the shadows of the night. "What are you doing? Why am I here?!" he screamed desperately, although not in want to go back to that basement-he would rather not have any more pain inflicted upon his sore body. Edelstein, with his officers, whose forms were now visible to Hugo as they abandoned him, answered over his shoulder,

"You'll see soon enough, my boy, just act natural!"

What advice! Hugo felt as if he was becoming suffocated. All of the bars around him seemed to be closing in by some unknown force, squeezing him tight and finally letting go before he exclaimed loud enough for any birds looming in the trees above him to scatter in a burst of wing beats and shrieks. He frantically breathed in and out, attempting to calm himself. He didn't know what had come over him; perhaps he was just over-reacting, calm, now, calm…

* * *

Hugo had been very unaware up to this point of anything in the cage with him; he briefly registered a low rumbling and intense, hot breath before sluggishly turning himself to face a horrible sight: the snout of a slumbering dragon. It was a beastly thing, not unlike the depictions of dragons Hugo had seen in the books his father owned back in Tolmezzo. It had two great, golden horns that grew from the back of its head and down. It was at least thirty feet long, curled up in the cage. The scales which blanketed the thing were glistening sleek in the moonlit forest, making it glow a muddy green hue. Its short snout suddenly rustled as a forked tongue flicked out before it yawned, brandishing rows of needle-like teeth. It was a Czech Longhorn; a smallish, intelligent, and aggressive dragon.

Hugo squished himself against the bars of the cage, petrified. The dragon opened its round eyes, which were like golden medallions upon its face. As it arose, its tail slithered around on the ground, twisting this way and that until its split tips suddenly cracked like a whip in the air. It was then up, towering so high that it couldn't hold its head lest it would be hit against the top of the prison. It tried to get closer to Hugo; a grizzly, high-pitched shriek started to form in its throat. But was unable to do so; it was tethered by a metal collar and chain bound around its long neck. It pulled relentlessly against the metal bearings, but soon gave up.

Hugo, overcome by curiosity for the creature at how it was stuck, briefly allowed himself to dismiss his fear for the thing. He slowly lifted himself off of the ground and, with necessary caution, retrieved his wand from around his neck; twine had been tied around the base so it could be easily hidden, as his pockets were still too small to fit the entire rod. He took the loop from around his neck and clenched the string in his tiny palm.

Just then, the dragon let out a puff of fire- it was so close Hugo could feel the hair of his eyebrows being singed. He quickly retreated to the side of the cage again, but swallowed his contempt and lifted his wand again. He knew only a few spells, and one that could destroy chains was not one of them. So the only thing he could fathom to do would be to just wave his wand at the chain this poor dragon was attached to and hope for the best.

He was, in fact, fully aware that if he did manage to let this beast loose from its shackles, then it could mean he would be in harm's way. There was, though, this incessant, nagging feeling within his gut that he should let the dragon go. For instance, if he were caught by a chain around the neck, he would definitely dislike the experience. For sure, he thought, this dragon must feel in a similar fashion, since its neck is being constrained in such a way. Hugo had a certain weakness of heart to any animal that brought him to pity it; this wasn't always a gift.

It continued to blow puffs of flame out of its mouth, but nothing too big; they often ended in a choked sound before it was to try again to form something like a continuous stream of fire, but it never succeeded. Hugo then pointed his wand at the chain as close to the neck of the beast as he could without worrying that he might hit the dragon instead.

He straightened his shaking arm and waved his wand at the chain. A wild, yellow apparition flew from his wand and rammed itself into the manacles, temporarily blinding Hugo with the intense glare it gave off just as it had done so. After several moments of cowering with his eyes closed, he dared to open them. When he did, Hugo saw that the shackles binding the dragon were not only broken, but gone, as if disintegrated. Now the dragon was swinging its neck around with the ecstasy of freedom from suffocation, stretching its muscles in a much needed exercise.

It burst out of the cage in a fury of hidden brawn. The dragon melted a gaping hole in the top of the cage and squeezed his way out, crouching on top and surveying his surroundings before letting out a guttural roar and flying off through the canopy and into the night. Hugo sat in the cage, gawking as the beast escaped and he laid still in captivity; the hole was much too high up for the boy to simply get through, but it could possibly be reached by climbing. Hugo managed to get halfway up the wall of the cage before the Nazis, who had of course heard the ruckus, came running. They caught Hugo and threw him back into the basement. Even though Edelstein was furious that Hugo had attempted to escape, he noticed, the Obergefreiter seemed to never let the smile on his face cease as he had the boy dragged back to the basement in the dark.

* * *

Many days and nights he spent there, cowering in the aphotic, somber cellar. Sometimes they would throw a bowl of food or water through the door, spilling the contents onto the floor while the boy would lap it up like a dog. Oftentimes his brother would do this job, spitting on the younger son of Pasquale. Other times he would just hiss, " _Pezzo di merda._ " Hugo would try to tell his brother he was sorry, sorry for whatever he did, though he had done nothing. His brother never answered.

Eventually they took him out again, away to a city in Poland, and they did not say what was to happen there. Though he did not know how he was to suffer there, he was delighted to be out of the cellar. Even if the sun did not shine through the murky clouds, he was relieved to feel the wind upon his face and raindrops on his skin. The trip lasted for four days, and was traveled on by broomstick.

Soon Hugo found out that he was not the only prisoner at the place where he was brought to. It was a nearly finished campus, situated in the middle of a clammy swamp. It what the officers called Auschwitz. There were several cattle cars that were brought, also, containing four dozen prisoners each. They were to do labor to complete the camp's first installment before hordes of prisoners were brought when the camp officially opened.

The prisoners which were brought labored on the tracks in the mud, whacked railroad spikes into sludge, and placed bricks to build walls; many died but replacements were put into their places very quickly. Hugo, on the other hand, was not made to do these tasks. He was instead instructed to enter a training room initially used to discipline Nazi wizards before and after they were brainwashed.

Hugo entered, but was confused as they said to destroy it. He thought it was to be demolished by the prisoners at some point. He asked how, and was met with a slap to the face.

"However you will, but use this," the officer said, handing Hugo a rather shabby wand. Hugo already had his own, but the officers could not know of that. He took the twig they offered and proceeded.

The training room went through the entire lower story of the building. Training dummies, mirrors, scaling walls, tables with cards and crystal balls, animal cages and maimed hands mounted; all of these things were in the training room. Hugo felt it difficult to lift his arm, as if it were filled with lead weights. The officers were nowhere to be seen, but Hugo knew that if he did not do as he was told then he would be punished severely. He lifted his arm.

He cast fire around the room, engulfing the walls and artifacts in a flame that gusted out of his hands like the kind that spewed out of the dragon's ferocious gut. He felt hot and burning with hatred as he castrated the building, wondering why he was there and how he would ever live again. How could one go on from this, living and forgetting all that had happened? It was not possible, he reasoned, as be breathed in the hot, burning air of the carnage he was birthing.

As soon as the heat and billowing smoke became too much for him, Hugo ran out of the space and into the courtyard. The entire building was up in flames and, a moment after he had escaped, the entire first floor collapsed, bringing the two other storeys with it in a deafening crash of splintered wood and clapping air. His rage soon faded and was replaced with dread.

* * *

Many months passed, a score and four moons. Within that time, Hugo still did not do the work that the other prisoners had to endure, much to his relief, though he felt horrible pity for them in his waking time. They fed him more, as well, though he was still quite skinny. He received two pieces of bread rather than one, and sometimes half of a sausage was put into his hand. He was given clean water. He was still beaten, though, and experimented upon. One of the superiors wanted him to have more strength so they could possibly utilize and manipulate his power in the future.

He was not a twin, but he was a magical boy of exceptional potential, according to Mengele and his doctors. They tested him with pain tolerance, and scored his back and front with the blades of knives, which had not been bothered by the doctors to clean. He would often get infections from them, but he would always recover remarkably fast when compared to the average prisoners. They continued operations on Hugo within the time he remained captive.

* * *

Eventually, when the camp was formally opened for the incoming of prisoners (the bulk of which were immediately sent to the gas chambers) in the year 1938, Hugo received his striped pajamas. A blue, inverted triangle adorned his chest, with a capital letter 'I' in the center of it; below that was a black 'X' signifying his magical abilities; his number was 919, and was stitched onto his left forearm with little protest. His spirit, through those two years and two months, had diminished significantly. He was no longer the happy boy who ran through the olive orchards with his hay-tailed wolf, who loved his mother's minestrone soup and his grandparents' wand shop. He was prisoner 919, and that meant senile fervor.

Routinely Hugo was to clean out the officers' barracks, exclusively using a toothbrush and a bar of soap to scrub the bathrooms and its appliances. While there Nazi guards would perhaps spit on him or taunt him, and say, "You're Giannino's brother, _nicht war?_ He speaks higher of pigs than you!" They would then cackle, though the red-haired boy ignored their remarks.

As he was walking back one day from carrying out these duties, one of the dogs of the guards was let loose and came howling after Hugo. He ran as fast as his emaciated legs could carry his wiry frame and soon he had reached his block, escaping the dog who was whistled back to his cackling master. A rush of adrenaline that he thought would never befall him again came upon him, and he could almost laugh with the feeling it gave him.

Some other prisoners were on the hutches, but on a bed by the only lamp illuminating the room was another boy about his age; this sparked some interest in Hugo, since young children such as himself were not usually spared from the crematorium unless there was something very particular about them. Upon further inspection as he inched forward, the boy had a black 'X' under his own black triangle.

The blond boy scooted over, offering a seat. Hesitantly, Hugo took it and sat next to him on the bed. Very seldom did he interact with other prisoners, for most were already too far gone to initiate with even if he wanted to.

" _Mein Name ist Oliver_ ," the boy with the green eyes said.

"I'm Hugo."


	4. Bruderschaft

**I don't know what to say, so here's a punny joke... also please send reviews if you have the time. It's nice to have one but it _is_ only one.**

 **What was Beethoven's favorite fruit?**

 **\- Cap**

 **Chapter IV : Bruderschaft**

"What did you say?" Oliver asked the other boy, confounded by his lilting tongue.

"Hugo, my name is Hugo. I can speak German, but I'm from Italy," he said. Words tumbled from his mouth in a rather clumsy fashion, as if he had not spoken for a time.

"You're the only other boy I've seen here. I saw them take the others away, mostly- to the gas chambers. Why are we here, then?" Oliver asked.

Hugo paused. "Well… we're magic, for one thing," he said, pointing to the _X_ on his shirt. "They specially pick those ones out and experiment on them. They also wanted me since they think I have much power; my brother told them, he works around here somewhere. That's why I'm here. If there's something particular about you, then that's probably why they kept you from the gas chambers, as well."

Oliver thought for a moment. "I can play the violin and I know a lot about potions; my father was an apothecary. I think that's about it, though. I'm not so special," he supposed, shrugging. Hugo scoffed.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself. They have a band here, and if someone can play an instrument they usually live because most others can't do what they can do. And you're magic, so that's also special. We just have to expect them to take us at any time for experiments," Hugo explained. He paused again, considering something. "Did you have any siblings, before you came here?"

"No, none. You said you had a brother, though?"

Hugo nodded. "We never got along. When he was old enough he left for the _babbano_ army and joined the Nazis. Then when my parents wanted to escape he found us and killed them. He took me away," he mumbled, his eyes downcast in reminiscence of the occurrence. "He was always jealous of me because I showed signs of magic earlier than him; my family loved it. It put him into my shadow, I think, but I didn't mean to. Now he's gone and done all of this."

Oliver almost sighed. "One night, when I was six, the SS took my family from our house and to Dachau- that's in München. My father knew it was coming, though. He was part of the Magische Polizei before he quit to make the apothecary his main job. He was forbidden by the Versammlung to go into the muggle army, or he would be killed; the Nazis said that if he did not join _their_ ranks, then he would be killed as well. He had no choice. They shot my mother dead and took my father away. They brainwashed him. And when I was being transferred here, he found me and choked me; that was only a few days ago, I think." He got a lump in his throat just thinking about what happened to him since he was a normal, yet lonely boy. Although, he thought, maybe he could not be so lonely anymore. "But anyway, since we'll both be here a while, could we be friends?"

Hugo thought for a moment and then nodded. "Yes. And I also had a thought," he said, his eyes growing wide. "The dementors, _dissennatori_ \- we will only succumb to them like the others if we keep talking about such morose subjects. We're lucky they didn't swoop in just now. We have to feign happiness, at least, if we are to survive. They eat the ones that are the farthest gone and still walk. Now that there are two of us, we have a chance. I know other children in Italy used to make jokes and laugh at them, and they were happy. Or they would play games, but we can't do that here."

Oliver nodded slowly, his own excitement evident. "Not all games are limited to toys; we could tell each other riddles as well as jokes," he said.

"And you could play your violin!" Hugo nearly shouted, quickly covering his mouth, looking around frantically; no one seemed to notice, guard or inmate. " … what I mean is, _you could play your violin_ ," he said again, whispering. Oliver let a smile creep onto his face.

"But I don't have one, they made me leave it in Germany," he said, suddenly serious. "If I'm supposed to play violin here to keep me alive then I need an instrument, and I don't know where to get one."

Hugo was quiet. "I have an idea," he said suddenly, gathering his thoughts. "I go to clean the officer's quarters every day, but not in the same building every time. I'm scheduled to clean the Obergefreiter's place tomorrow morning. I've talked to him before, but he just asks me questions. If I'm lucky, I can catch him when he's in a good mood and mention a violin for another boy who plays it and doesn't have one. I know, because I have been here since before Auschwitz opened, that they take each prisoner's belongings to a special place, warehouses. Someone's violin was probably confiscated. I bet, if I tell him something that he wants, he could have one of his men look for one in there and you could play it when they bring it back. And that would be both wonderful and ward off dementors, especially if it's a light-hearted tune."

Oliver nodded; it was his turn to exhibit a small grin in such a place that it was unheard of to do so. "Yes, I would be forever grateful. What would you want from me in return, though? I have to give you something."

"What more is there to give than your friendship to me? Here's my deal: if I get you a violin, we will be like brothers. We will tell each other everything, never keep secrets. Even if we get mad at each other, we'll always forgive, no matter what has happened. And if the other is in trouble, we will help, even if it is against the other's will and judgement," Hugo proposed, his blue eyes growing bright, like they should have been before. "What do you say? Will you be my brother?"

Oliver swiftly considered this. "What about your blood-brother? I'm not like him, since he is a Nazi."

Hugo sighed. "Giannino isn't much of a brother to me anymore. If you accept, then you'll be more of a brother to me than he ever was."

The other nodded slowly. "Good… I'll be your brother, and your friend."

Suddenly a great grin splashed across Hugo's features. " _Questo è successo in fretta, ma credo che questa sia la nostra unica possibilità_ ," he said with gaiety. And then he embraced his brother. Oliver was startled at first, but then returned the hug. Neither of the boys had had one for over two years.

He was suddenly full of mirth that he had someone who he could call friend, even brother. And never before had he had someone to converse with that wasn't an older person, someone to smile with and make plans with. He could relate to him, help him. And by being jolly together they would keep each other safe from the monsters in the sky. As long as they were discrete, their plans would work.

The boys proceeded to tell each other everything about themselves to the last detail. For such a thing as brotherhood between those of different clans and lands was a rather seldom concept, and they knew that it would be their only chance to have such a bond.

* * *

In the morning Oliver was to go to work in the trenches, digging dirt up to make a moat. After he had gone, Hugo went to his cleaning shift where the Obergefreiter had his office and personal living space ready to be cleaned. An officer was always in the room with him while he cleaned. He took up most of his day doing this task.

After he had finished, Hugo went back to the Obergefreiter's office, wishing to find him. He had already tidied the space before, but the man who had beaten him and taken him was not there. As he was about to leave in failure, as he was expected to return to his block, the door opened. The Obergefreiter's form entered, followed by another.

"Herr Edelstein, this is just too much. They hit that child against the wall and positively killed him, it's just too barbaric," the other man pleaded. His superior turned.

"If you think it is _too_ barbaric then tell your colleagues that I said that they are to be _less_ barbaric. But this is how the prisoners are treated here. And you may not leave, either, to answer your other inquiry. Get back to your post, lest you want to become one of them." The subordinate, frightened, turned and left with a salute. Edelstein scoffed and turned to see Hugo standing by the wall. "Well? What is it, haven't you finished, boy? Or do you desire to be filleted like a floundering fish? Have you answers for me this day?"

Hugo gulped. "Perhaps, sir, if you give me something in return. I have a proposition," he said, his voice quivering.

"Spit it out, then!" Edelstein said, sitting down in his desk chair.

"I-I will answer one of the questions you have for me if you give me a violin. There is a musician, and he plays it, but his instrument was taken, and I thought they might have one lying around in the warehouses somewhere," he said.

"Fine, if it gets you to speak," he said, leaning forward onto his desk. "Tell me, Hugo, your grandparents' wand shop- what sort of things did they make there other than wands? I know they did other things there, your brother told me. He was not sure of what but said there were many powerful items stored inside." He was menacing as usual but curious, for he knew the boy would probably cave and answer under his gaze after he had made such an offer.

He was correct. Hugo hesitated, wondering how he could put it so lightly that nothing very important would surface in the wake of his response. So he half-lied. "In the basement of the shop my grandparents kept a magical tree. It would not wither without the light of the sun. My grandfather attempted to create a wand from its boughs but whenever he cut one off it grew back, and the part that was severed would be made dead in his hands. Then he found that the sap from it could give one's strengths heightened power, and he gave it to me when I was newly born. That was his greatest secret," Hugo said, his voice growing weaker towards the end. It wasn't an entire lie, but there was no tree in the basement. Supposedly, though, his grandfather had found a strange tree in the olive grove that bore no fruit. He was about to cut it down when he discovered the sap. It made his hands more nimble and his mind all the more quick. Nonno never spoke of it after that, but Hugo had a suspicion about his grandfather's words that he had given the syrup to him as a child.

At this, Edelstein grew very interested. "Any strength that a particular person possesses?" he pressed.

Hugo nodded, "Yes, physical, mental, anything." Edelstein thought for some time, scoffing to himself. The boy waited, but soon wondered if the offer was to be honored.

"Obergefreiter," he started, "Will you fulfill my request?"

Edelstein stirred. "You know what I said earlier. Get out," he said, an impending glare in his eye. Hugo took a hint and fled to the barrack.

It was some days before anything happened in response to Hugo's request. During that time, the officers were ordered to have him work alongside the other prisoners in the mud, digging the ditch. Luckily it was on the same shift as Oliver, so they were able to toil together. Although the labor was horrible, the muck was thick and clammy, and the officers often slapped them for doing so, the boys talked in hushed tones, told stories, and made jokes about the officers and silly, sometimes vulgar topics. They saw, on multiple occasions, dementors swoop down to feed off of one unlucky prisoner or another. It only prompted them to do more of the like. Even if they were surrounded by the hatred and the gore of the concentration camp, which they were reminded of often, they knew that this was the way they would make it and end up, hopefully, still intact afterwards.

On the third day after Hugo's talk with Edelstein, something did turn up. While in the barracks one evening after a hard day's work digging the ditch, an officer brought a violin to Hugo, and Hugo gave it to Oliver.

* * *

Once Oliver had his violin he picked it up and played. He performed Bach, mostly, and did it for an age. The other prisoners were instantly calmed, and many cried. The officer who had brought the instrument stood there, dumbfounded.

As he did, though, a dementor, as is commonly done, came down for a bite to eat. Immediately, it was drawn back and cowered from the music. It swiftly left, and all the while and afterwards for a time, the dementors bothered not the inmates of the block.

When he had finished, Oliver took down his instrument from his chin and sighed; it was good to play again. Turning to Hugo, Oliver thanked his friend many times over. The other was humble, but knew that what he did was very chivalrous.

* * *

Edelstein walked the camp, giving thought to his priorities. The tree Hugo mentioned, Hugo himself, and the boy Oliver Faust.

The tree the red-haired boy told of would be a very powerful asset in his superiors' eyes; possibly, he speculated, they would would give a little sap en mass to the Geheimen Truppen, especially those located within the empire. Even Hitler himself might take some, and his associates. The fact that it lived without normal plant-like necessities was baffling, and that it could not be pruned was strange, indeed. If it could give a small boy prodigious abilities, then how could he imagine the full effects upon an entire army? Perhaps the Führer would know a thing or two about this odd tree, after procedures were drawn upon it. Of course, he would not be the one to ask the man in question.

The Faust family was his next thought of priority; much to his displeasure, his friend Arlo and his family was captured some time ago without his knowing. If he had known then, perhaps he could have intervened, but deep down he knew the effort would have been fruitless. He had a good idea of what had taken place, and knew that after one session with Hugo in his office after he had asked about the person who the violin went to. When he found out that the boy who had the violin was both his friend's son and the boy who he had electrocuted and hurt, the sudden weight of what he had done sunk in; guilt on the other prisoners' behalfs and concerning what other things went on at Auschwitz were not included, for he was a selfish man.

Arlo had been his greatest friend while in the force; they had been as close as friends could be. He had been Arlo's best man at his wedding to Christa and had even been there for the boy's birth years ago. He had held him, for God's sake, and felt affection towards the toddler when he could be there, but lost thought of his friend's family after he started rising in the Nazi ranks. His friend and his wife were gone and what had he done? Nearly caused death to their only son. At a friend, or rather fiend, he had become in this child's eyes. Even as he felt regret for Oliver, he still felt none for the other boy.

After he had found out of what had happened in his ignorance, Edelstein decided he had to do something to make it up to the boy and his family. He would allow him to escape, somehow, and would make sure it was foolproof. The plan which he had devised was fairly simple from his standpoint, but would be painful for them. Mengele, the head doctor at Auschwitz, wanted them for testing, for he knew at least Hugo was quite particular, and had heard rumors of another child that was also very powerful, and wanted him as well to experiment on. Edelstein would accept his request, but while they were in the doctor's care, as he called it, he would get Oliver to become an animagus and then, when he was ready, he would allow for him a pocket of time to get through the barriers of the camp and then he would be free and find a safe place.

As he strolled through the desolate alley a man caught his eye. He was by himself, on the ground, crawling in search of grass. He muttered strange words in Polish as he did, almost chanting. Scoffing, the officer marched over to him with a strong stride in his leather boots.

"Man! You are out of place. I should end your life here for that, but before I do, explain to me what you were saying," he demanded, taking the man's shoulder with great force.

The skeleton of a man cowered and shivered in fear and covered his face with leathery hands. "P-Please, I said nothing, nothing," he quavered. Edelstein then took his wand from his pocket and pointed it at the mangy creature, jabbing him in the throat.

"Do not think I don't know the sound of someone uttering magic just because it comes from a Jew," he hissed, looking him in the eye. The man shook all the more. "What was it that you said?"

" _Incrementum herba_ ," he murmured. "I was willing any kind of seed or grass to grow that would, even from nothing, but none came up."

"Then it was in vain," Edelstein said. "But you said much more than that, my friend. Tell me what it was."

The man shuddered. "I- it was a prophecy of sorts. I get them, I am a Seer. It was very strange, for I had no idea what it meant."

"Pray tell," he said.

With a slow groan the man nodded. Within a moment he was in a sort of trance-like state, his head lolling about before he uttered the words in a guttural voice,

 _Captives all Eighteen shall be_

 _Until the claws are edgeless._

 _With blood in the sky and a triumphant cry,_

 _Will then the dawn ariseth._

 _Nine and Nine will topple the pawns_

 _And overthrow the king._

 _The rooks will tumble,_

 _The game is won,_

 _And the private's horn shall ring._

 _Nine will in darkness glow,_

 _Nine will for knowledge part._

 _Eighteen all shall combat two_

 _And none shall ever shear their hearts._

 _Nine's departure shall come in time_

 _And Nine's flight shall be delayed._

 _All in time but time will tell,_

 _When either goes, the other stays._

 _Eighteen all, no more shall be_

 _Life hath made him bitter and bleak._

 _The paddock is dreary and the crops are gone;_

 _An end's and end, all Nine are none._

The man finished his episode and returned to his original, haggard state. Edelstein was confounded at his words. "And you know not what they mean?" The man shook his head. Edelstein asked him then of his name.

"Hamlin," he squeaked, quavering yet again, quite like a frightened mouse. Edelstein hauled him up by the arm.

"Come with me."

* * *

Edelstein had been born into a magical family but they, tragically, died in an accident when he was a boy. Having already befriended Arlo at a young age, Edelstein moved in with the family. The wand which he now brandished, which had previously been at the man Hamlin's throat, was the one he had gotten as a gift from Arlo's father.

He made sure Hamlin was safe from monumental harm, for the most part, while he contemplated the Seer's prophecy. After reading it and peering at it for an age, after growing frustrated and nearly setting fire to his whole apartment, he realised very little. He did this for over a year, with minimal result. He would sometimes order Hamlin to come to his office and would delve into his mind for possible enlightenment. With some aid from the old man, he gathered that the two numbers at the beginning were Oliver and Hugo. He figured this because he planned originally for Oliver to escape, and the first stanza vaguely mentioned something of escape from captivity. Although, it spoke of two, so it must include the boy whom he had interest in for experimentation, for the boys had become close, according to Hugo when he would speak. That was, for the most part, as much as he had gathered from the riddle.

Again, he made Hamlin come to his desk. "You will, when you are taken to block ten, find two boys named Oliver and Hugo. You will help them to become animagi with these," he said, brandishing two splotchy leaves. "I plan for their escape, and you will tell _no one_ of this, and you will _not_ mention my name in any circumstance. These forms will allow them to travel undetected and at a faster pace, in luck, if they escape correctly. Do this for me, and you may too be freed."

* * *

One day, before the bell for work was to ring, Oliver and Hugo were taken by two officers to a part of the camp they had never been to before. These alleyways were desolate of inmates and only guards with hounds roamed around.

The boys were taken inside the building and put inside a room with the windows shut and a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Bunks lined the walls, and many were filled with people. As soon as the guard had gone and others were stationed outside the doors, a man who had been sitting on one of the beds ushered the boys over.

"You are Oliver and Hugo?" he said in a hushed voice. The boys nodded with uncertainty. "I must tell you this: you are to escape, and I am to help you."

The Oliver's eyes widened. He were sure escape from Auschwitz was impossible. "But how, and why would you help?"

"Do you boys know what Seers are?" he asked, answered with nods from both children. "I am one, and I received words that you two must get out of here."

Oliver looked at Hugo, silently asking how they were to begin to trust this man. Hugo turned back to the man. "What is your name?"

"Hamlin, my boys." Hamlin proceeded to tell them of the prophecy he had been given and of how they were to be freed. They would become animagi and, in the night, flee faster than they could on two feet. "There will be a pocket of time some months from now when you can escape." Then he gave the boys one mandrake leaf each, which were then stuck to the roofs of their mouths; they were to stay there for an entire month. Unfortunately enough, Hugo turned out to be allergic to mandrake, as he had erupted in hives the same day he put the leaf in his mouth. It was then removed. This aggravated Edelstein to a degree, but he could do nothing to combat something that was outside of his control like that. Hamlin was given all of the ingredients for Oliver's potion nonetheless, and when a thunderstorm came to southern Poland over a month later, all the while the boy had recited an incantation, he drank it.

While the boy had waited for the storm, Doctor Mengele ruthlessly experimented on them with phosphorus, mustard gas, and typhus, wishing to see how far the boys limits would go if they were so strong as they were described as. They nearly did not survive the last experiment, but did only because Edelstein intervened and ordered Mengele to cease what he was doing with the boys, for they were valuable assets and not petty trinkets to play with. Although he didn't order him to halt all procedures on them. By the end of it, the boys were scored with scars and bore horrid memories of what was done to them. They told themselves they would not talk about it to others, and never spoke about it among the two of them.

When it finally came for the boys to be freed, Oliver was able to turn into a wolf and back. This was very good in Edelstein's eyes, as the wolf was both a fast runner and able to defend itself easily. Though, he would be slowed down by Hugo.

Before being brought back to their original block, the boys witnessed the death of Hamlin. He had died in the typhus experiment and had succumbed to hysteria towards the end. All that came out of his mouth by then was unintelligible and nothing could be done. His body was taken away.

* * *

Oliver and Hugo were returned. According to Hamlin, before he had died, there was to be a pocket of time when the boys could escape on the second night of the month of July. It was that day, so the boys made sure that they had all of their belongings accounted for, which was very few.

The plan was to be as discreet as possible. As evening roll call was to start and all the prisoners were going to the court yard, the boys were to wander along the edge of the wall and go until they reached the easternmost corner of the camp. From there they were to go through a gate to get past the fences, breach the guard tower and knock out the officers there, steal their clothes while there (for their own were very uncomfortable and would never keep them properly warm, even at that time of the year), best the wall, and swim the river Soła.

The bell sounded. Hugo gave Oliver a curt nod to each other and they followed the crowd of inmates towards the doors of the barrack. They remained near the back of the crowd and, when most had exited through the threshold, they stayed behind, flattening themselves against the barrier as they listened to the squelching footsteps of the mass in the mud diminish.

As soon as they were gone, the boys set out, making sure to keep to the shadows as they made their way to the back of the perimeter of the camp. Quickly they ran, with quiet steps. They did not know that it was Edelstein who had ordered most of the guards off on that day in that particular area.

They arrived at the gate which was to allow them through the fenced walkway that separated them from the watch tower. They were clearly in the line of sight of one of the many windows in the tower, so they were reasonably on edge.

" _Alohomora_ ," Hugo said, unlocking the gate. They did the same with the next one, and they were onto the other side, where grass grew. It felt sweet on their toes when they slipped their wooden clogs off, dew weeping onto their feet and washing them.

"How many do you suppose there are in there?" Oliver asked as they creeped up to the wall and underneath the lowest window.

"Probably three, maybe four," he breathed, brushing auburn curls from his eyes. "I'll take them out with my wand. You weren't able to smuggle one in, were you?"

Oliver shook his head. "No. I won't be able to do anything then, unless I were to kill. I don't want to do that unless I have to. Plus it would be gruesome and noisy," he said.

"Let's see how many are on the ground floor first, so if we take them out beforehand and without sound, the ones higher up will be more simple to take on," Hugo suggested, bracing himself as he stood up from his crouching position to glance in the window. Oliver got up from next to him and went to the window opposite of the door to look through, as well.

Hugo peered in; orange light filtered throughout the room from a lamp on the table and a fire in the hearth. A man sat there, probably asleep, and another was by a fireplace, smoking a pipe. He looked back over to Oliver after crouching down again, and they met up once more under the first window.

"I can get them both if they stay like that for another moment. It will be quick and quiet, but you'll have to be swift and catch the one who's by the fire when he falls," Hugo said, rubbing his nose as the clouds above started to mist.

Oliver nodded. "After you."

The other took his wand in hand and cautiously approached the door. " _Alohomora,_ " he whispered once again, growing tense as the lock slowly undid itself and opened the door. Initially, the man by the fire didn't notice as the door became slightly ajar, but as Hugo pointed his wand through the opening, he turned; it was too late. Hugo had thrown spells at both of the men and before they had any idea of what was happening, they were frozen in place, as if at attention. As soon as the second officer started to tip, Oliver leapt in on light feet and caught him, placing him on the rug. The eyes of the men moved (the first man being now awakened) as they watched the two invaders traverse the first floor of the watch tower.

The boys started to search the men's pockets for anything that would be of use to them in the moment. Without trouble Hugo found a wand in the first man's pocket and handed it to Oliver. He motioned his head towards the stairs and the blond nodded, clutching the railing. Hugo followed after him, and not one of the stairs squeaked underfoot.

Two low voices droned as they made their way up. The shadows of the two men were outlined as one paced and other stood with arms crossed. Hugo paid no attention to what they spoke.

He looked to Oliver. The latter motioned to his wand, then to Hugo's, and to the upstairs room; they would each take one man out. Hugo nodded and the boys proceeded to their targets.

Quickly the boys brandished their wands and worked their spells. Each man fell to the ground with a thump. The tip of Oliver's wand smoked a bit; dragon heart string, Hugo thought, was the core. His friend was lucky the spell didn't rebound back at himself.

"Quickly, take their clothes," Oliver said, beginning to strip the man who laid unmoving in front of him. Hugo did the same with the other, and as strange as it seemed, would be worth the effort. Soon they had the jackets, shirts, pants, boots, and entire uniforms of the SS officers on their bodies. Before one of the boys could mention how baggy and large the clothes were that slugged off their shoulders, the regalia promptly shrank and became a size that the two scrawny children could fit into.

Silently the boys hurried down the stairs and out the door with their new and former belongings, but not before taking whatever rations and water the guards had. They then arrived at the wall and halted, gazing up at its lofty height.

"I suppose it doesn't matter now," Oliver said, lifting his wand. Before he uttered a spell, though, he lowered his arm. "You should do it, my wand is faulty," he remembered. Hugo hummed his agreement.

"The last thing we need is for you to be blown up." He lifted his own wand and said, " _Reducto_ ," and the wall in front of him was reduced to smithereens in a crash; a hole was formed for them to fly through. Oliver and Hugo bypassed it and went at a fast pace, hoping to avoid any guards as best they could with the distance they might travel before they are found out.

Suddenly, without either boy having guessed beforehand, a distant gunshot rang out. Instantly Oliver fell to the ground with a grunt and struggled to get up again, though he managed to with great effort. He clutched his right leg as blood started to well around his hands. Hugo tried to support him, but the other shook his head,

"Don't try and help me, let's just keep going! We can't stop now," he said, already starting forward and nearly falling. Finally Hugo hitched Oliver's frame in his arms and towed him at a fast pace while the other struggled behind. It must have been the guard that Oliver took care of, he thought, for the wand he had procured did not work well in his hands. The spell was probably faulty as well and the officer had recovered quicker than the other three.

They made it to the tree line and kept going like this for an age; neither boy knew how long they ran together. They came to the river Soła at a shallow point; barking and indiscernible shouting sounded in the distance. Hugo looked back. Men and dogs were scant yards behind them. Tugging Oliver further, they trudged through the chest-deep, frigid water.

As Hugo glanced over his shoulder again, he saw that the posse chasing them suddenly halted. Not because they were fearful of the current, but because of something they saw. The dogs yipped and cried, some running back from whence they came without paying heed to their masters' feeble commands to keep silence or stay still. Dementors, an enormous despair of them, had been clouded around the river, making the water bitter. They went for the bigger catch but didn't put the boys out of their considerations, yet.

Soon they were on the other bank of the Soła and did not stop. But at some point, after they believed the chase had ceased and they still went, Oliver faltered for the last time. Great pain flooded his face, and he lowered himself onto the ground.

His hands and pants were caked with crusted sanguine and blood still leaked from the wound in his thigh. The bullet which had been shot had broken into shards and had torn his flesh with deep penetrations. An entire piece of flesh seemed to be missing, though it was wide and flat and not with shape, rather than a gaping hole. It was hard to see anything underneath the tatters of cloth. The boy was lucky to make it so far as the interior of the forest.

Hugo tore a piece of fabric from the hem of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound tightly. "That's the best we can do until we get help… I don't think any healing spell I know can fix that, but maybe it'll help a little if I try?" Oliver nodded, his face papery and anemic.

With doubt, he uttered, " _Episkey,_ " but nothing happened. Oliver still looked the same and was not at all better. For a moment they stayed there and just breathed in the fresh, eerie air of the Polish forest. Then Oliver started to lift himself from the ground, supporting himself using the trunk of the tree he leaned upon.

Alarmed, Hugo stopped him. "No, we can wait now, you're hurt," he issued, sitting next to the other boy.

"The sooner we get to civilization the sooner I won't die of this," he said, clenching his hands around the handle of his violin case.

Hugo opened his mouth to retort what his friend said, but his voice had halted suddenly, for a horrible, creeping chill cut through his skin and slithered up his back. Oliver slid back down the back of the tree and gulped, eyes livid.

Hugo slowly turned. Several dementors had swarmed above the boys, reaching out with their bony fingers and chilling the air with algid breath. Hugo tried to grab his wand from his jacket pocket but his hands quavered and he dropped it, and was unable to retrieve it. They came upon him, then. A great sucking came from their mouths as they swooped, one by one, over his form, which then laid upon the ground in a senseless heap. All was cloudy and dreary to the boy, then. But, as if something had called them back, they left. A great light filled the forest.

Oliver had taken Hugo's wand when he had dropped it. He had produced a patronus, warding off the dementors and bidding them leave. A small, white-ish animal chased the demons away; it looked to be a white fox; a small creature, though swift and daunting. After the dementors had fled Oliver finally lowered his arm and scooted to where his friend lay. Hugo watched him struggle so he tried to get up; he felt as if he was afflicted by a fatigue, but he managed. A great weightiness of darkness had plowed upon him in the moments the dementors had come and gone, and now he was left exhausted.

"They just came out of nowhere," Oliver murmured, giving the wand back to Hugo.

"Thank you for making them leave," he sighed, rubbing his head. "What memory did you use?"

Oliver thought for a moment. " … I think it was the first time I heard Beethoven," he said, unsure. "It was just the feeling I remembered."

Hugo nodded. "Anyway," he sighed. "It's late. We should eat," Hugo said, trying to forget about the episode. He was mildly shaky and wanted to sleep.

So they got out their food and put it all in a pile on a cleared part of the ground to see it in context. Their stash consisted of three tins of sardines, a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, saltine crackers, and a jar of marmalade three quarters empty; all was wrapped up in a bundle to keep it clean. Two water bottles were also found. The boys ate a single tin of fish together, not daring to eat any more, for they did not know how long they would be without further resources. Although Hugo did nearly force the remaining marmalade down Oliver's throat; the latter resisted, but he eventually caved.

Then they slept against a tree, side by side, each able to see in the other direction lest something came their way. Though they were without heat from a fire or shelter in a tent, they slept more peacefully they ever had since they were abducted, even in the midst of pain and doubt. The Polish forest was a tranquil, yet dark place, but offered a vastness of placidity so rare to the weary of heart, mind, and body that time seemed to stand in place, abysmal.

* * *

misc:

Soła, a river in Poland. Pronounced like the word to 'sew' and -ah at the end. [sohwwah]


	5. Adytum

**Chapter V : Adytum**

 **I apologize about the delay- life can be a bit like a tough dog on a leash. But this chapter is even longer, it's a little over 7k words! And to the anonymous reviewer that asked: "**

 **I am interested to see where this prophecy goes and who the 18 are. Is this gonna involve Grindelwald and stuff?**

 **I won't say a whole lot but it goes very far. And I don't know about eighteen... there seems to be less than that. I tried to make the prophecy as vague as possible. Confusing stuff is always fun to muddle over. And I expect this will involve Grindelwald when the time comes, since it's inevitable. I'm not exactly sure how, though, but I'm sure he will be one of the big antagonists. There seem to be a lot of those.**

He did not awake in the light of the morning. The gloomy canopy still engulfed him, shadowing Oliver's hands. He wasn't quite sure why he had awakened. He wanted to turn and look over his shoulder but then remembered the heavy throbbing in his leg, taking in an unexpected breath. He decided it was best he did not move.

But then a strange sound reached his ears; that must have been why he had awoken. An otherworldly, cackling laughter. It was sounded very closeby, growing louder, then, suddenly. Deciding to open his eyes once more, he looked around. Nothing was there.

Wait- just there, in the shadows of the undergrowth ahead. Something moved. Oliver gingerly tapped Hugo's shoulder next to himself. "Hugo," he whispered to the other, willing him to wake immediately if he could.

His friend stirred. "Don't say a word too loud- I think we're being watched," Oliver said. Hugo sat up and looked around the clearing questioningly with the cloudiness that came with sleep.

"I don't see anyone," he slurred. "Are you sure you saw something, it could be a trick of the forest. It's awfully eerie here-" His head suddenly stopped its sweeping and his eyes widened, as if he had seen something. Then, a faint titter sounded somewhere ahead, then a ways to the left. Looking to the right as a possible way of escape, Oliver unfortunately saw a faint figure moving among the foliage.

The suspense ate away at them, for they were not shown any kind explanation for an age. These creatures, whatever they were, had them surrounded. They quieted their laughter a little after some time, but then they started to make much more peculiar sounds. They moved as they made them, adding to the spectral obscurity of the situation. Oliver clutched his defective wand in his hands, watching with his eyes where he thought the sounds ought to have originated from. These sounds which the pack made now were rather familiar to Oliver, horribly familiar, though they sounded very unlike man. They spoke human speech, though in a rather high pitched and irritating way. Their voices were malicious and hissing in tone as they circled the boys.

" _Dear boys, come hither to us … !_

" _We shall play, we shall verily play …_

" _Come hither, comfort you we will_

" _Come to us now_ , _we be hungry still."_

Suddenly Hugo turned to Oliver. He shuddered, terror in his eyes. "I know what they are," he forced out, a horrible tremor in his normally lithe voice. "They're Bavarian erklings. They will draw little children out with their laughter and eat them. And if they can't get what they want, they'll come together and take the child by force if they can. They can speak, too, and they'll come on us like a pack of wolves. They'll eat us alive while we still scream and our blood is warm." Hugo was very agitated in this instant.

Oliver was spooked by this as well. This was especially so when one of the erklings came out just enough out of the shadows to see its thin, gaunt face. Its eyes glowed sickly in the dim forest light and its teeth were sharp and pointed. A long nose protruded from its front. Oliver immediately pointed his wand at the creature, his arm shaking shoddily.

" _Boy, do not fear. We only wish to play a game! Will you join us?"_ the thing said, its slithering tongue brushing over every word with poison. Its entrancing gaze grasped Oliver's mind for a moment, but he shook it. Again it tried to hypnotize him with those bulbous eyes and again he resisted.

"Come not near us, demon! I will kill you if you will," Oliver said. He trembled though, fear blazoning from him like rays.

" _Oh, it is too bad! You let us resort to defiling, then. Very well,"_ the leading erkling jeered. The others that had encircled the boys, seven including the chief, revealed themselves fully and began their descension on them.

The erklings suddenly jumped at Oliver and Hugo. They then both let loose their spells. They were quite useless duelers at this point, though, and only really used _petrificus totalus_ and _stupefy_. Though Hugo was more learned in spell lore than Oliver, even he knew very limited magic, since he was taught only simple and practical things as a little boy. Oliver even turned into a scrawny pup of a wolf, attempting to give some backlash to the enemies. Though, it did little good, as he could barely move, so he turned back to use his wand. He figured it might be useless now to have this special ability as he was hurt and could not run or walk or hunt as wolf.

The erklings were indeed affected by the spells the boys cast, but they were remarkably quick to recover from the blows they received. They would pick themselves up within a few seconds, always coming back for more. Continuously Oliver's wand malfunctioned, sending a rather nasty stupefy spell his way and making him dead to the eye for some moments before he, too, recovered.

After some time of struggling the boys nearly gave up and resigned to defeat; Oliver, having to sit on the ground or lean against the tree throughout the entire battle, was extremely exhausted. Hugo was overwhelmed. The erklings, seeing their best opportunity, tried to leap at them and claw and bite them, though for the most part without success; Hugo deflected most of them. But when one finally hurtled itself at Oliver and the boy could do nothing, an odd screech sounded through the air.

Huge, winged, horse-like beasts cloaked in shadow galloped into the onslaught of the little green creatures, and they were trampled on. The one that had overtaken Oliver hurriedly scrambled to escape but was swiftly taken care of.

"Oh, we're saved!" Hugo sang in a sudden elation of relief. He reached up to feel the silky black mane of one of the mares of the herd. "By thestrals!"

Oliver, still recovering, watched them in wonder; such elegant, yet haggard creatures they were. He started up from his spot nestled among the knotted roots of the great tree but nearly doubled over in the effort of summoning the strength and endurance needed. "Help me," he managed out; Hugo caught him just in time and kept his weight.

"You know, they can take us wherever we want if we're polite to them," Hugo said, huffing with aspiration. He assisted his friend to hobble closer to the thestrals and had him stand up next to one.

Oliver grunted in response. Finally having made it over to what seemed to be the only stallion of the herd, he leaned on its sturdy flank and looked up to it; he stroked its nose. Though they were very odd creatures, the feeling that Oliver felt when he pet the beast was extremely therapeutic, and he almost did not want it to end. All of the negative feelings of anxiety and terror and death were muted for a moment, ironically. "Will you take us to England, then?"

"To London," Hugo added. He stroked the stallion's neck, finding the same effect.

The thestral grunted, much like Oliver, actually. It waved its head about, as if giving permission to go. The boys both managed to mount a thestral each (Oliver, with some assistance) and were ready to head off. Before taking to the air, the stallion which Oliver rode let loose another screech which echoed around the area abroad.

"Your sound matches your appearance, though not your behavior," Oliver mused lightly. "You look like a little devil. _Teufli_. That's what I'll call you, for now." Teufli then spread his large wingspan of leather and took off with a single flap; the herd he led followed likewise. They traveled through the skies above Poland at great speeds, sometimes causing their eyes to close from the wind blowing into them and making them sting. They kept this up for an hour, when gradually the temperature, which had been rather chilly, warmed slightly.

After some more time of flying Oliver soon fell asleep, for somehow, he only grew more tired and uncomfortable in his skin. He started to believe he had taken on a fever before he started to doze, but then forgot. Periodically he would feel sweat dripping down his nose and he would clumsily rub it off with his sleeve. He had rather odd dreams, as well, while he slept. When he wasn't interrupted by sudden turbulence or his own uneasy sleep, his mind would conjure up images that bore no colors. The only color besides the standard black, gray, and white, was red. This is only one of the various phantasms he had:

He dreamed that he was back inside Block Ten, and Mengele was standing above him with a bloody saw. Oliver couldn't move his body; he was chained to a table. Mengele came with the saw and started to cut along his neck, starting to sever it from his body. All the while Oliver was shrieking terribly, and blood spurted into the air, leaking in his eyes and trickling down his chest. Then the nightmare changed to a scene where Oliver was standing in a dark place, surrounded by the dead bodies of Hamlin, his mother, father, and Hugo. But there were even more bodies of prisoners, simply laying strewn across the ground, each with a horrendous expression strewn across the face. Some of the bodies had started to rot and eyes were gone, teeth had fallen out, and chunks of flesh or even arms and legs were missing. In the corner of the room Mengele was crouching and humming a march tune that had sounded on the loudspeakers inside of the death camp once. He had a chunk of flesh clutched between his greasy little fingers, nibbling at it much like a rat would. Mengele looked over, and his face was that of a rat, and his eyes were bulging. Then they popped with a loud sound, spewing more blood everywhere. Oliver suddenly felt a ripping deep in his gut, and looked down; his belly was cut open. All of his intestines and internal organs were falling out of him, sloshing onto the floor and covering the gory bodies of the many dead and rotting cadavers. At that moment, the deathly corpses of his father and Hugo had awakened into a zombie-like state and started to lift their arms up, grabbing at him. He hollered, trying to get away, but the other bodies had also awakened and started to grab at him, biting at him and tearing off his skin and flesh as he screamed and screamed, unable to be released of the horror that was eating him alive.

When Oliver was jolted awake for the umteenth time it was raining. He felt clammy and smoldering all over, his entire body was in a state of malaise, and his leg felt different than it had before. He almost felt like retching when he awoke without even having to look at it; he knew it was infected. He dared move it to a better position, but couldn't bring himself to move it more than an inch.

Teufli had led his herd upwards at a steep incline. But before they had broken through the cover of the clouds, Oliver saw swastikas floating below them. They were on the wings of planes that the Germans flew. Before long, though, the rain had ceased and he could see the planes no longer. They were above the storm and all enemy aircrafts. The wind was rather strong up there and his ears may have popped, but it was relatively quiet above the storm and Nazis flying below. He rested his head on Teufli's neck like he had been doing before and rested again.

* * *

Hugo rested throughout the ride to England as well, but fell asleep after they came above the clouds and woke up a time later. The party rode in this fashion for hours more until the clouds were broken and the ocean could be seen far below. Hugo had never seen such a wide expanse of water before and was amazed at all of it and the innumerable creatures it could possibly hold; how vast it was!

Sometimes he would look over to Oliver who flew in front of him; he looked sickly. Hugo watched his friend and made sure he did not accidentally throw himself off of his steed since he was draped over the back of him. He wondered how they would get help in England for him, since he desperately needed a doctor. His grandparents, he was sure, would be able to find someone without trouble. He would be fine, he would say in his head repeatedly, though there was still a fear lurking in his mind.

Land approached on the horizon. Hugo could not stop arching his neck to see what England looked like. Greenery was all he could see, but some houses were visible here and there as well. Far below the apartments and buildings accumulated and roads led to one central area- London. The thestrals passed over it within moments and suddenly the countryside opened up before them. The air rushed by and wove through Hugo's hair and he finally knew what great hope felt like in the heart of a weary traveler when his wanderings were to finally come to an end. They were nearly safe, just nearly, but not quite.

They landed. Hugo slipped off of the back of his mare and came to Oliver. He was still, sprawled upon Teufli's back. He tried to rouse him, gently nudging his shoulder. Oliver stirred, but was not coherent, nor was he so later; he seemed to be in a continual state of daze. Hugo sat him down against a tree; he started to look uncomfortable very quickly.

"Hugo, where are we," he forced out.

"London, we only need to get to my grandparents' house. It's around here and shouldn't take long. I think this is the right street," he rambled, glancing at a nearby street sign. It read _Mill Hill Av._

Oliver panted. "I don't think I can do it."

"Yes, you can-"

"Then how shall I get there? I can't move, I can't walk! What will you do?"

"If you can't walk then I'll do the walking for you, I'll carry you on my back if I must." Oliver gave a great sigh.

"You'll never be able to lift me from the ground. We're both skinny to the bone."

"Then turn into a wolf, you'll weigh even less if you truly are skin and bones," Hugo said. He figured that a wolf would be easier to carry, especially if it was the same age as Oliver was a boy. Whenever he changed at Auschwitz he was a small canine compared to a grown one.

"I don't know if I can, I probably can't-"

"Then how else am I supposed to get you a safe place? Please try." Oliver did try; he groaned with effort, but eventually he managed to make himself a medium-sized, emaciated wolf. He had to try multiple times, as it hurt to do so. "I'll do this gently," Hugo said. He picked up his friend with all the caution he could muster, but he still trembled in his arms. Oliver was almost weightless, light as a broomstick.

When Hugo turned back around Teufli and the mares were gone; he supposed they had done their deed. Trying up the road, Hugo started his search for help. There were many small, rolling hills and places where the road was almost a thin track. Though he was in a hurry and afraid for what might happen if he wasn't able to find his family, he marveled at how beautiful this country was.

After what seemed to be the entire afternoon, Hugo still had found nothing to signify his grandparents' place of dwelling. His mother had said the house had a sign set before it that read her family's name, but he had not seen it yet. While he traversed the English backroad, Oliver slept a disturbed sleep; he would constantly toss his head or pant. It only made Hugo more anxious to find his destination.

He had stayed on the road all day, but thought of turning back to try the other direction in case he had gone the wrong way. It was a good thing he did not turn back around, though, because the sign that read _Hawkins_ pointed just ahead as he squinted to see it in the dusky light. Finally, Hugo had found what he had been looking for. He widened his stride in anticipation.

He came to a gated piece of property. Again, the name _Hawkins_ adorned the top on a sign. Hugo suddenly became alarmed that the gate was locked, but then remembered that he had a wand. He hastily inched it out of his pocket without losing his grip on Oliver and cast the unlocking spell upon the passageway. A swift click resonated and the bars swung open. He jogged towards the front doors, which were very, very large, and knocked boldly on their front with a large golden knocker shaped like a lion's head bearing a ring in its mouth; the lion growled at him after he knocked. He waited for a fleeting moment on the front steps watching the lion lick its lips, but it felt like an entire hour had passed before his knock was answered by a rather gray butler. The butler looked down at Hugo through his bifocals and for a second looked to be taken by surprise, but composed himself.

Before the haughty steward could utter a word, Hugo erupted with erratic entreaties in English, in which was not entirely fluent and had a rather pronounced accent. This was very ironic, as his mother had been a native speaker. "Please, my grandparents, they are here. I am Hugo Corvo, their grandson. Let me in, my friend is sick-"

"Young man, why should I believe you are the grandson of the master and mistress when you come onto the doorstep in dirty clothes and with a dog in your arms?" he denoted, scoffing at him. Hugo was enraged by this. How could he be so trivial when he obviously needed serious help?

"He's not a dog, a wolf! And he is a boy, also. Oliver, go back into a boy, the man has to see," he said, laying him down on the concrete and shaking him gently. The latter responded gradually, but not in time.

"Child, I do not have time for this. Go and beg at another house." The butler promptly stepped back and prepared to close the door. But just as he did so, Oliver finally changed back into a boy again, in his tattered Nazi uniform and violin strapped upon his front. The butler suddenly halted his actions and stared down over his healthy mustache, more interested than befuddled. Finally seeing what Hugo was trying to say, the tall man turned to summon his master, but was beat to it by the mistress, who budged herself in the doorway.

"Mr. Dove, what is all this commotion at the door," she said. Then she saw Hugo crouching over Oliver and put a hand to her lips to stifle a gasp. "My dear boys, come in, come in. Mr. Dove, please help the this one inside."

Mabel Hawkins was a woman of about seventy who was rather tall and had her silver hair neatly packed in a bun. She had a beautiful, thin face. She was not modest about her feelings and was very empathetic towards the boys as she helped Mr. Dove get them inside. Surprisingly, she did not need the aid of glasses, even at such a dotage. She was a very kind woman, and did not lie. She was especially kind as she reassured Oliver, who was rambling quietly and in only choppy words in German.

"What's wrong with your friend?" she asked Hugo as soon as they had gotten him up the stairs and into a bed. He was sweating and groaning again. Mrs. Hawkins sat by his side and tutted. "Mr. Dove, please get a basin of cold water and a washcloth." The servant complied.

"He was shot, with a- a pistol," he stammered, retrieving a word. "And now he's sick."

"Oh my. I will call for a doctor once Mr. Dove comes back, he will not be long. How did this happen?"

Hugo swallowed. "We were escaping, er- Auschwitz. I don't know if you call it something else in English."

"No, I've never heard of this place. What was it and where is it?"

"It was a camp for prisoners. It was in Poland, I think, and they took many people and killed them. We were not killed but when we escaped they shot Oliver," he explained.

"Oliver is his name- oh, bother, I forgot to ask your name. I'm Mabel Hawkins," she started, setting her hands on her lap.

"Hugo Corvo," he said quietly. At this Mrs. Hawkins nearly gasped again.

"You're Amelia's son? Then this happened to you, my grandson? You're really him? We hadn't heard from her and her husband in years, we got so worried."

Hugo gave a nearly indiscernible nod. " _Si_."

"Did… what happened to them, your parents, and your brother?" she asked in a thin voice, dreading what she suspected to be the truth.

Hugo took in a breath. "Mother and father were both killed. Giannino became one of the Nazi's men; he killed them."

"Oh my…" Mrs. Hawkins said. She was quiet for a time, and did not stir until Mr. Dove returned with the basin and cloth. Hugo was sure she might burst into tears, but she kept a sober composure. "Thank you, Mr. Dove."

She proceeded to dip the cloth into the water and wring it out, folding it nicely and setting it onto Oliver's febrile brow. "Mr. Dove," she said clearly. "Please call for the doctor. This boy needs immediate medical attention."

Once Mr. Dove bowed and left the room Mrs. Hawkins sighed. She was cold of face now, and did not reckon like the comely woman he had met before at the doorstep. "You became friends with him, then?" she said, adjusting his sheets to keep her hands busy for but a moment. Her hand barely brushed against the bright red armband adorned with the swastika. Her hand withered and she put it back on her lap.

He nodded. "We were the only young boys who were magic there, and we had life still. But we are more than friends, we said this. We said we would be like brothers. Giannino, he is not my brother anymore."

Mrs. Hawkins looked over the sickly boy again. "You said his name was Oliver?"

"Oliver Faust, yes."

"He is a German, then?" Hugo hesitated, mildly confused by this woman's question. He nodded nonetheless.

She faltered; it was impossible to read her face and to see what she was thinking. As if considering something, she shook her head. "No matter, he is a boy, just like you. I only fear he might be taken advantage of or persecuted, is all. You see, here in England, there is news of the war, and there is much prejudice against anyone who happens to be a Jew, is a German immigrant, or one that happens to be of German descent. It's sad, really. None of them were thought of badly before but now they are ridiculed, as if the entire community has become a bunch of snotty children. You know, the sort that bullies the lesser child. Luckily there are few people to do so around here, though they are here."

Before Hugo could make any reaction, a lanky old man grumbled into the room. Rupert Hawkins was slightly older than his wife and bore a short, gray beard along his chin and jawline. He was tall and skinny for an old man, and continually wore a stoic frown paired with his eyeglasses. He came stomping up the stairs and to the door. "Mabel, what is all of this ruckus about? I tried to ask Mr. Dove of it but he ran of saying something about a doctor, what's happened-" Quickly, seeing the scene below him, he absorbed what he could. "Who are these two boys?"

"They escaped German encampment, dear. This is Hugo, Amelia's son," Mrs. Hawkins said, motioning towards the boy sitting across from her. When she mentioned her daughter, she almost lost her voice. Mr. Hawkins' eyes slid over to look at the boy. Hugo thought he looked like a very stern man. Mr. Hawkins came forward.

"My name is Hugo, sir," he said meekly. Mr. Hawkins did nothing but study him for a moment.

"What happened to Amelia?" he said, not bothering for niceties. He knew that if Hugo was there and not his daughter, something had to be amiss. Mr. Hawkins was not the kind of man that let things go unnoticed.

Hugo struggled to speak. "She died."

Mrs. Hawkins stifled a sob at hearing the dire news again. Her husband scoffed. "She died?" he whispered. Now louder, "You mean to tell me that my Amelia is dead and you live?" He was a scare.

"Rupert, I don't this is the time to-"

He cut her off. "Woman, have you no heart? She is dead." He stormed out of the room without another word, stomping down the hall and away. Hugo was stunned; if this was his grandfather, he wasn't sure he liked him at all.

"I'm sorry for that, he can get very frustrated at times," Mrs. Hawkins said, sighing. She quickly swept a hand over her eyes. At that moment the door, which had been haphazardly thrown open, showed a very professional looking man in a nice coat.

"Mistress," he tipped his head. "I heard you have a sick boy?"

Mrs. Hawkins nodded, getting up from her seat. "Yes, his friend says he was shot and the wound was infected, I gather." She was all business again, seemingly forgetting the rather emotional past events.

The doctor came to Oliver's bedside and examined him. He placed a hand on his forehead, checked his pulse and breath, and saw to what extent the wound had manifested. "How long has it been since he was hurt?" he said, turning to Hugo. The boy stiffened.

"A day," he said. The doctor shook his head.

"The bullet has fragmented and is embedded deeply in the flesh. I will remove the pieces with magic, but even so, I cannot guarantee that that alone will heal him completely. If this is to heal, then I must come very often to make sure he is progressing as he should," he reported, adjusting the angle of his chair. This magical doctor seemed to know the mistress. "I may be here a while, Mrs. Hawkins." She nodded.

Another person entered the room; a young woman. She was the doctor's, named Abbott's, assistant. She carried with her a large medical bag and papers. She set the bag at the far end of the bed and unlatched it, removing various articles that were of a wide range of uses, of which Hugo had no idea for. "You may step out, this will be a while," the doctor said. Mrs. Hawkins promptly gathered Hugo and led him outside of the room. She headed down the hall, assuming he would follow, but the boy stayed behind for a moment. He stayed by the closed door and put an ear to the wood:

" _How bad is the infection?"_

" _It's far along. He seems to be a strong fellow, but he's so skinny. He may not have enough in him to fight this after we remove the rest of these fragments and start treatment on the wounds- retractors."_

A pause. One of them started to speak again but his shoulder was tapped on by Mrs. Hawkins. "Hugo, come with me. Dinner will be served soon."

"Dinner?" Hugo hadn't had a proper meal in years. Suddenly his mind was brought away from Oliver and onto food; his stomach growled mightily at the thought. He was not being greedy, but he was a starving child.

"Yes, but you must be washed and dressed first. Forgive me, my boy, but you don't smell like daisies," she said, a laughing smile upon her face. Even then, he could see the sadness in her eyes, even when she feigned delight. "Come, our maid Lila will help you."

Hugo was taken to a room down the hall and to the right; it was large and luxurious. The bed was enormous and the pillows looked as fluffy as clouds, but he could not try them yet until he was clean. Everything in the room looked comfortable, from the drapes to the chair cushions. Mrs. Hawkins was at the door as Hugo went inside. "Bathe and get dressed, then meet me downstairs for the meal."

After she left, Hugo noticed another young woman who had been by the bed, folding clothes. She quickly got up and curtsied. "Lila Southwark, at your service. I've drawn a hot bath in the room through there," she said quickly, pointing to the door past the window. "There will be clothes for you in here when you're ready."

"Thank you," he said quietly, and he went into the bathroom. It was equally as big as the bedroom, harboring a swimming pool of a tub, wrought in brass. He undressed from his stolen uniform and dipped himself in the water. It was wonderfully warm, and he covered himself in it.

After bathing and not dawdling, for he did not want to keep the others waiting, he wrapped a towel around his waist (his hips were jutting out) and poked his head through the doorway. Lila was gone but some clothes were neatly placed on his bed. He went and dressed; she had provided a nice shirt, shorts, waistcoat, dinner jacket, tie, shoes, socks, and a belt.

He felt very fancy and mildly uncouth getting into such extensive garb. It was never normal for him to wear these sort of clothes. He had seen rich children in Italy wearing things similar, sometimes, but never really desired it; he knew his own clothes were comfortable enough. He was stuck then on tying his tie correctly; why he needed one, he had no clue. Sighing in defeat, he tried untangling his damp hair with a comb that was set on a table with a mirror. He soon found out that it was rather useless to do so and ran his fingers throughout his hair instead, which worked much better.

A knock sounded at his door. "Mr. Corvo, are you ready?" It was Lila.

He went and opened the door. "Oh, your tie-"

"I can't do it," he said, giving her the silky fabric. Kneeling down, she swiftly tied the correct knot and tucked the end into his waistcoat.

"All done. I've come to fetch you for dinner." She led him downstairs and to the dining room. It was a vast table, filled with all sorts of meats and vegetables. There were potatoes, puddings, dumplings, soup, salad. There was no pasta or pizza, he noted, but he was not picky; this was a feast he was dying to eat. He only wished Oliver could be there.

Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins both sat at one end of the table, towards the fireplace. Mr. Hawkins was still frowning, he noted, but Mrs. Hawkins gave him a small smile. "Come, sit," she said, beckoning him over. "We asked Doctor Abbott to stay for dinner but he said that he and his assistant had another call to take."

"Is Oliver going to get food, too?" Hugo said, momentarily dazed as to what he should put on his plate first.

"After dinner I thought I'd go up and bring him some broth if he'd have it," she said. "Dr. Abbott said also that he should be fine, for now at least."

After much of the meal Mrs. Hawkins and Hugo had eaten a healthy amount of food each, but then the former looked over to her husband. "Rupert, get some more to eat! You've barely touched a thing."

Rupert grumbled. "You know I don't eat much."

"Yes, but you're getting to be older and must eat more, especially things that are good for you. Why not try these Brussels sprouts, dear, they're very delicious," she offered, but only managed to make him eat a small bite.

Dinner went on much like this, even through the dessert portion. They eventually quieted, though, and soon the meal had come to end. Hugo was sent to bed and finally, after tugging himself out of the weighty clothes, scrambled into the bed.

It was exactly how he imagined it. It didn't even feel like a bed, it was like a cushion made of air. He sprawled himself out under the sheets and duvet and covered his head in the warmth and softness. It only took a few moments before sleep befell him in his warm shell.

* * *

Rupert and Mabel moved to the drawing room after supper and sat by the fire, silent for many a minute. Finally, after getting tired of the lack of words being said, Rupert opened his mouth. "Did the boy take to the broth you gave him?"

Mabel shook her head. "Only a spoonful."

She said no more after that; he still loathed the silence between them. He said, to his surprise, in a weak voice, "Mabel, you've pretended for long enough. I don't know if you're playing at me but is this boy really Hugo?"

She did not look at him. "He is. I know it. He is from Italy, he is just like how his parents described him, he looks like both of them, he knew our-" she shook her head. "He knew Amelia. Of course it's our grandson, Amelia was his mother! There is no evidence that contradicts this fact."

"But how can I imagine our only child to be murdered by the hands of her eldest?" His voice broke. "She was our only child. And now, whenever I think of the boy with her eyes upstairs, I can't help but feel jealousy and shame deep in my heart like a wound."

"Do not say such words!" She finally turned to him. "This boy is not responsible-"

"But he knew her before she was murdered, it's him who had the _luxury_ to see her before-"

"Enough!" Mabel hissed through her teeth. Tears were now running freely down her beautiful, yet aged face. "Enough of this talk. We may not be able to bury her or her husband at all, but there is no doubt she did love us."

"How can we know? How can _I_ know? I chose not to write to her-"

"Then that was your own wrongdoing, Rupert," she said. He scoffed, getting up from his armchair.

"I've had enough of your lashing," he said, and did not wait for her last word. The grief that he held was too great to keep, and he wept as soon as he made his way up to the balcony, where he often went to brood. His pride, too, was very great, and he would not openly weep in front of his wife after such a fight. Though he hated the rich cats of both the muggle and magic higher class, he was one of them, whether he liked it or not.

The mildness of the warm summer breeze tugged at his lanky body. He was always very thin, even as a child. When he was young, he had gone to live with two rich parents. His mother was always confined to a wheelchair and his father was one who did not each much food, even if he wanted it; for this he was always made fun of by his peers, however childlike it was. A young boy then, Rupert followed his lead and did not eat more than what could fit in his hand. Oftentimes he would fall ill for long periods of time, though he always recovered. He later rationalized his compulsion for not wanting to be overindulgent with food like how most of his fellow tier-toppers were.

When he was old enough, he worked in his father's business in a factory. When he came to be the man in charge, he set down new rules, and work both improved and accelerated in pace soon after. Around the same time, the runners for the election of the mayor of London were to start their campaigns. Rupert decided, while he was in his high social position, he would run for office. At this time wizards were allowed to run for muggle official positions and such things as that. He ended up being elected.

After some years there was a ball. There were many balls, of course, throughout the years, but this was a ball to remember. On that night Rupert saw a young businesswoman that he fancied, and had fancied for some time, though she had known one of the men who was running against him in the re-election that year. He decided, that if he beat this monster of a man, he would be hers and she his.

He won again. For some time he ran both London and his business, which was rather booming around this time. But, when he was finally finished with the muggle's politics, he decided with Mabel Irving that he would take full control of his father's company once again and start a family with her as soon as they were to be wed. They married under the fig tree in the backyard of his father's old estate. Soon after, Amelia was born.

Amelia followed her mother's lead and became a businesswoman who made muggle and wizard fashion. When she married Pasquale, Rupert was not pleased. The little Italian man reminded him of himself when he was younger, poor. And so he hated Amelia's husband. They went to Italy to start their family, to his resentment.

Now Rupert was afraid. He was afraid that, since these boys were most likely here to stay unless by some strange circumstance they were taken (Mabel definitely wanted to keep them), he would have to love these boys. They were not his sons- hell, one was a Jerry! But what if the boys did end up growing on him, what then? He wouldn't have the guts to even make eye contact. He would feel like he had done them a sin. He never even spoke to Amelia after she got married, he was so angry at her union with his son in law. And Hugo's friend, he reminded him of himself so much that it looked like a scary reflection in a foggy mirror. He couldn't possibly see that kind of boy again, no. " _But they're only children,"_ he said to himself. " _What could you think of them other than that? You're not the innocent one."_

He finished by the balcony and went back inside the house. While walking to the staircase, he heard something rather peculiar. A whimpering, perhaps, coming from a room down the hall. He immediately thought of the boy sick in bed and came to his room.

Oliver writhed, twisting himself in his sheets. He breathed heavily and spat out incoherent words of his harsh language. Rupert hesitated, for he rather disliked the Germans. He watched and debated with himself whether he should aid him or let him suffer. How morbid his thoughts were! He rushed to the boy's side and tried to settle him.

"Boy, calm down! It is only a dream, whatever it is," he said, and more things of the like. Eventually Oliver started to still himself, half-awake, but did not regain his lost composure.

"Where am I, where…!" he sputtered, growing agitated again. Rupert laid a hand on his head.

"Safe! Don't worry, you'll be alright-"

"Where his Hugo," he asked, nearly choking. "Is he safe?"

"Yes, safe as can be." Oliver sighed, finally letting himself go. He was quiet for a moment.

"You are his grandfather, then?"

"Yes, Rupert." After the short episode, the old man regained his gruff attitude, crossing his arms. Without paying the boy any regard, he asked, "What were you dreaming of that made you that frightened?"

Oliver looked away and closed his eyes. "Nothing, it means nothing now."

Rupert scoffed. "Sure. You'll simply flail and scream at nothing." Oliver shot a sluggish glance at him then.

"I don't see why you would care to know what it was," he grumbled, pulling the duvet closer to his nose. "You must know a lot about nothing if you are interested."

"Oh you bet I do- though you will be the master of it soon, in fact, since you're the one stuck in bed." The boy was beginning to show a quick wit but Rupert was having fun in this battle of tongue-lashing. "Are you going to tell me? It helps to talk."

"Fine. I had a dream about my mother and it wasn't good," he frowned.

"And…?"

"I talked, you heard me. And now I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Why not, what's there to hide-?"

"Nothing, nothing-"

"Oh here we go again, all about nothing-"

"-She was shot, in the head! I have that dream a lot. Is your big nose satisfied?" Oliver deferred, picking up himself up and heaving himself from the bed; his arms shook.

Rupert couldn't say anything; he mentally slapped himself. " _Idiot! How could you have been so cattish?"_ He sighed and let his hand slide down his chin; this was why he would get into heated arguments with Mabel, sometimes, over the most petty and stupid of topics. He enjoyed it, though, as if for sport.

Oliver let out the breath he had been holding and gently lowered his back onto the cushion again. "I'm sorry," Rupert said, but the boy didn't seem to hear. He only looked the other way. "My mother, she died when I was young, too." He still did not shift his gaze. "She wasn't shot, but she was taken advantage of."

Oliver finally said in a weak voice, which rather suited his defenseless state better than his spiteful one earlier, "Did you see her die?"

Rupert nodded. "Yes. And I was hurt, too, but not like you."

The boy finally gave up his resting grimace and let on a look of pain and melancholy. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. "I'm sorry you lost your mother," he said.

"Oh, don't feel sorry for me, it's-"

"Nothing?"

Rupert bore the smallest smirk, however bittersweet. "Yeah."


	6. The Infusion

**Chapter VI : The Infusion**

 **Once again I'm late on the deadline, but please bear with me. These last weeks have been nothing short of busy.**

 **To the anonymous reviewer: Yes, Dumbledore will 100% be seen and interacted with. To be quite honest, I'm unsure of how to include Grindelwald. If you have any helpful ideas…? C:**

It had been a week since the boys arrived at the Hawkins Estate. Oliver had not awoken for a day after his aciurgy, and was under the effect of fatigue for a time longer. He had very little energy and could not do more than to sit up and stare out of the window, which now was fogged and riddled with the misty drops of a summer thunderstorm. He had always loved the rain, but his malaise seemed to heighten at this point.

Mrs. Hawkins said Doctor Abbott was to visit him again this week. The man was kind, as he found, but he wasn't sure he trusted him. Oliver did not anticipate his return but wished that his leg would heal in a speedy way. He hated being so immobile and helpless; it was not in his nature to assume aid from another.

This day, though, he felt more with vivace, though that was an overstatement. His boredom had grown and he felt he had to do something with his hands lest he rip out chunks of his own hair. He scooted to the end of the bed and retrieved his violin case. He was fortunate, for if fate had gone against his will, his instrument could have easily been marred in the process of fleeing to England. He took his instrument and put it upon his shoulder, just feeling it and how it fit perfectly onto his body. He wasn't sure he could pick up his arms yet enough to play even a note. Whenever he held the thing he felt ecstasy in him, and any emotion he harbored was transformed immediately into passion that he would then insert into his playing. This was his escape route, his wonderful mode of creation that he could manipulate and make all his own. This was how he showed his love.

He took his bow and tightened the hairs with the screw at the end of the stick. Gingerly, he drew the bow across the second string and heard how out of tune it was- flat, he noted. He was not surprised, with how much jostling around it had received. He drew the note again and at the same time turned the peg that held the string in place until it matched with what it should have sounded like first. He did the same with the other strings, measuring their frequency with the string that had been tuned correctly. After he was done he only held a 'C3' stagnant, just listening to its purity. It wasn't really beautiful, but he couldn't bring himself to play just yet.

After some time he finally sat up and played a simple melody called _Liebesleid_. It was gentle enough for him to play without much mental and physical exertion and was equally beautiful, however somber. Though soon he grew pained and put his violin back in its case. He then sat again by the window, silent and brooding into the gloomy day.

Then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs started. Oliver glanced towards the door as they grew less distant and it opened, revealing Doctor Abbott, alone. "'Morning. How are you, lad?" he asked.

"Fine- you are here for another appointment?" he said. He knew this man was a doctor and only intended to help him, but he could handle his own misgivings.

Doctor Abbott pulled over another chair, sat down, and opened his briefcase. "Yes. You have not tried to walk on it, I hope?"

"I haven't."

"Good. I have some rather exciting news for you: another doctor in the wizarding world has found a breakthrough in wound healing potions, specifically for those injured extensively on the battlefield. It is still being tested, I'm afraid, but I have managed to convince him to let me have a single sample. Now, I got it for just this one purpose- you are an interesting patient. This is just pretense, and you do not have comply, but if I were to give to you this potion, would you take it willingly?" The doctor pulled out a small phial from his bag. A dark blue liquid sloshed around on the inside, and small particles danced throughout. "I will warn you, though, its properties are not entirely known." This vaguely brought back memories of the tests Mengele conducted on him- he couldn't do it.

"No, I can't, I will not subject myself to experimentations again," he said, looking away. The doctor seemed confused, for he sounded like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"Oliver," he finally said, "This could help your progress considerably- we won't know how far that will be but we can find out only if you take this medicine."

He furrowed his eyebrows. Eventually he said, "You say you don't know to what extent I will be healed, but could it be said that, potentially, it could heal me completely?"

Abbott hesitantly nodded. "… Potentially, yes."

He sighed, "Fine." He was taking a great risk with himself. "Are you sure it will not do anything… unnatural to me in the process?"

"Fairly certain, yes, actually, quite certain." Abbott held out the bottle to Oliver. "Take it now. The effects may take some time to present themselves, though."

He took it and gently swirled the mucky, blue contents. If this doctor had underlying malevolence then he was hiding it well, however eager he was; he figured he had nothing to lose, anyway, since he was about as useful to the world as a piece of rotten fruit. He uncorked the bottle and downed the entire thing with a cringe. The taste wasn't bad, but very strong and bitter to the tongue that it almost burned. He wiped his mouth.

"I will come by on Wednesday, three day's time. Until then, be as well as you can be." Abbott then gathered his things and promptly left. Oliver took a glass of water which was on his night stand and drank the entire cup, still feeling thirsty afterwards. He felt no different than he had minutes before, but he was being hasty; he of all people knew patience well. He retained his place by the windowsill and watched the day turn over in dolor.

* * *

Three rather exceptional things happened on the third day after Oliver had taken the potion.

First- his leg started to feel peculiar. It started with a low throb, which was hardly unusual. It was more unusual, actually, that it was a _low_ throb and not a much more piercing pain. Though it throbbed, and did this for some minutes before a stretching, a convulsion which was impossible to hinder started to wrap its way around Oliver's leg. He was tense, shaking, sweating. He wasn't sure what else to do so he gripped it tightly, trying to ease what he thought was a cramp. However, it progressed, and did not stop until a sound which is made when a belt is slapped over itself by a father to warn a naughty child of impending punishment whapped through the room. Then Oliver gasped, looking down at what the potion had done- he assumed it had been that which had made the situation thus.

In the place of the wound, once he removed the bandages, was raw, inflamed flesh. It still hurt badly, but was tolerable compared to what the wound had been previously. Could this be? Was there a bounty to reap from this risk? He gingerly lifted himself up, supporting his body with the back of the chair by his bed. He tested his weight on it; lightly at first, and then, once established that weight could be distributed onto it, he stood fully. His knee buckled with effort, but he raised himself up before falling and took a step, shaky though it was. He nearly laughed. It would take more time, but soon he would be walking just as well as Hugo. He would have a good pair of legs again.

He was so excited that he thought he might go downstairs to surprise everybody. He had also been confined to his bedroom for over a week, so his body would be glad to be released of the drab surroundings. He limped to his door and clung to the railing on his way down the stairs. He tried to be as quiet as possible; he could hear the others eating breakfast down in the dining room.

When he was visible enough to the table, Hugo looked up, and his eyes seemed to grow twice as wide than they normally should have been. "Oliver!" he said, still chewing the food that was in his mouth and swallowing. "Why are you out of bed? You need to rest."

"No, look- I can walk!" he said, coming down the stairs faster now and taking a break at the foot of them. "The doctor gave me a potion."

"Just like that, it didn't do anything more?" Mrs. Hawkins speculated, rising to get a better look at the boy. She, nor the others had really spoken to Oliver much since he arrived.

"No," he said, suddenly becoming sober and more like himself. "At least not yet. I took a great risk, I think, but so far nothing bad has happened. That's the thing that worries me, if some kind of adverse effect were to happen."

"Just let us know if anything happens, hmm?" Mrs. Hawkins said. Oliver nodded.

"Do you want to go outside? It's not rainy today," Hugo suddenly asked. The other nodded.

"Yes, I've been looking forward to that, let's go."

* * *

It was a breezy, sunny day in London. They played tag in the yard. At first, Hugo was reluctant to let his friend run, but Oliver coaxed him, saying he probably needed it in order to make any more progress at all. It was slightly difficult, and not without any small amount of discomfort, but he was able to run, though always he lost the game.

Later the boys started on a walk to the city, where they desired to explore a bit, and perhaps find a wizarding venue they had heard Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins discussing about earlier. They failed to let their new caretakers know, though, that they were making this journey to the heart of London, and neither a thought or a worry of it crossed their naive minds. "I heard them say there was an ice cream shop there," Hugo said excitedly. "I cannot wait to have some, it's been so long."

"Ice cream? What's that?" Oliver asked. Throughout his younger life, before utter tragedy befell him, his family was very poor and lived off of pea soup and bread. They gathered little more if they were lucky.

Hugo was breathtaken. "You haven't had it? It's like… frozen milk, but comes in many flavors."

He scoffed, "It doesn't sound that appetizing."

"Really, it is. It's sweet and can be like chocolate or vanilla or nuts or fruit. You'll like it, I'm sure."

Then they took a break for Oliver to rest. Though he could walk (or hobble, rather), he was still weak and not unsusceptible to pain. This would probably subside with time, but for now he couldn't overexert himself, even if he said to Hugo that he needed no break. The latter never complied.

They set off again. The clouds were gathering in an overcast conjoining. As they went, the sky seemed to grow in darkness and shadows appeared to lengthen. Oliver knew it wasn't that late in the day, though- it was not yet even noon. He looked over to Hugo; he sensed that something was wrong, as well.

Then, a mysterious figure appeared in front of them down the road, so far that they could not see much more than a dark shape with no features. Then the figure, who looked to be in the form of a man, started to walk forward. The boys had long since halted in their tracks.

"Aye, boys! Why do you go alone?" the man cried. Oliver and Hugo were frozen in the middle of the road. They couldn't think of anything to do other than to reply or be silent; they chose the latter. "What are your names?" The man had a rather strangely forced voice, and lurked forward still.

"That is none of your business. Why do you ask?" Oliver said.

"But that is none of _your_ business! It seems we are all nosey, here." The man finally came to them. He was devilish-looking, very tall, bore a black trench coat, and had his eyes hidden under a hat. He seemed to ponder the two boys. "Just tell me what you call yourselves, that is all I need."

Hugo scoffed next to Oliver. "Go away. We will not tell you."

The man sported a smirk. "I see, you are careful with your names. That can either be very smart or very stupid." Suddenly at the end of his words, the man's voice turned to venom, and he walked away, past them. Oliver and Hugo were befuddled as the man left, and didn't go until they knew he was gone. When they resumed their trek, the shadows seemed to recede and sky seemed to open up and was cloudy and dark no more.

* * *

By midday they came to the city. It was beautiful with its cobblestone streets and brick buildings. It reminded Oliver much of how the nicer parts of Dresden used to be. Muggle contraptions which held four people inside their bellies ran along the roads on wheels. Muggles themselves rushed past, with suitcases and other effects in hand. The great clock tower loomed overhead. The boys gawked at everything for an age before they actually found the street which housed the portal to the place which they came to know as Diagon Alley.

By this time Oliver did not feel quite well. He did not want to worry Hugo, but soon he came to a point where he thought his head might burst and his gut might do the same. Particularly the sides of his head throbbed. He strove to ignore these symptoms, but knew that it was probably what he dreaded so much three days ago- the other effects of Abbott's potion.

Second- Suddenly, as they entered a place called _The Leaky Cauldron,_ Oliver felt as if he had been punched and that his ears had exploded. A loud pop sounded, but it was apparent that nobody else heard it. The feeling was similar to the pressure change he experienced while in flight on the thestrals to England, but on a much larger and more uncomfortable scale. He was fearful for a moment that blood might have been dripping out of his ears, but luckily he found none.

During this episode he had to lean against a wall, but otherwise hid his surprise quite well. Hugo was alarmed, of course, even by this seemingly small act. "What's wrong?" he said quickly, coming over to his friend.

"Nothing, I'm fine-" he slurred, rubbing his ears. Something was… off. Hugo's voice sounded slightly farther away but he was right there in front of him.

"Are you sure…?" the other said, not quite believing this gag.

"Really, I am." As if in mild defiance, he went on through the pub, assuming the other would follow or catch up; he was correct. A man, while they looked for the way to the place they were seeking, came up to them from behind the counter.

"Aye, boys, you know where you're going?" he drawled over excessively, swirling a mug of something in his hand; Oliver didn't want to know what. This man was ragged but looked to be some kind of worker, perhaps.

Stopping, Hugo answered. "Er- yes, we do, but we don't know how to get there, exactly."

"My, aren't you a smart one! What'cha lookin' for?"

"A place called Diagon Alley, we heard it was somewhere around here," Oliver said.

"Aye, it is. Say, if you want me to tell you how to get to Diagon Alley, you's give me a tip-off- tell me who you are and I'll show you to the portal. It's only fair, since you might need me help once and again. I'm Jerry, Jerry Laiyr." He held out his hand for either of the boys to shake.

Neither of them took Jerry's hand. "Um… it's okay, we can find someone else to help us with less trouble," Oliver said delicately, though Jerry looked like he had been slapped in the face. Hugo hid a snicker. Before the little man behind the counter could say anything more, the boys were off, and someone from the kitchen yelled something out to Jerry about getting back there and serving the house soup. He went with a groan.

* * *

After some time searching for the portal by themselves, the boys were ready to give up. But a man with a long auburn and gray beard and half-moon spectacles caught their attention.

"You're overthinking it, I believe. The portal is actually not _in_ here, though it is here," said the man. "I'm Albus Dumbledore."

"You don't want our names, Mr. Dumbledore? Everyone we meet wants them. But we don't tell because they are bad," Hugo explained in his limited vocabulary. Albus Dumbledore was not vexed.

"I understand, there are rather strange characters around here, nowadays. I won't ask your names," he said, addressing both of them. "Because I already know both of them. I am the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts, a school for magic."

Oliver scoffed with disbelief. A magic school, so convenient to them? It could not be true. "How do you already know our names?" he asked.

"We have a book of all of the children in the United Kingdom, and yours were added quite recently. You two also happen to be the age that a child would normally enter Hogwarts for the first time as a student, so your names were put on letters. I have them here, actually," he said, pulling out two letters from his coat pocket. He held them out to the boys, and each tentatively took the one with their name on the front. Oliver's read thus- the third occurrence of the day:

To Mr. Oliver Alberich Faust

Down the hall, third room on the right,

13, Buttonhole Lane,

Mill Hill,

London

 _Dear Mr. Faust,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later by July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Albus Dumbledore_

 _Deputy Headmaster_

"As you can see, the latest date for you to send your owls was passed just after you initially arrived in London, but that's no matter. You can decide right here, if you desire to." Professor Dumbledore crossed his legs and interlocked his hands on his lap, ready to wait for a long while.

Oliver and Hugo looked at each other; could they do this? A magical education for them was one of the most valuable things they could have, but how would Hugo's grandparents like it? He supposed they had to take some kind of risk, even if they, for no rational reason, did not want them to attend Hogwarts. " _Ich will ja sagen,"_ Oliver asked his friend. " _Was sagst du?"_

" _Ich werde zustimmen… aber wenn wir in Schwierigkeiten geraten, es ist deine Schuld."_ Oliver nodded, both of them smirking.

"We'll go," he said, folding his letter back up.

"What's it like, the magic school?" Hugo asked.

The professor gave a small grin. "It is just as a school should be, with classes that teach you your most basic and important skills as wizards. You'll be sorted into houses, and your housemates will act as your family to each other. But I digress, you will be told that before the start of term feast," he said, standing. "Why not find the way to Diagon Alley now? You must get your supplies somehow, seeing as term starts in little more than two weeks."

As Dumbledore said these words, they grew fainter, yet again, by another increment, fading as if through a tunnel. Oliver forced himself not to clasp his ears and draw attention to himself. A fear manifested itself in his mind, that, if whatever force allowed it, he might lose his hearing altogether. But he was going too far, he reasoned; it did seem to be getting progressively worse at a fast rate, yes, but perhaps when they got back to the Hawkins Estate, Doctor Abbott would be there. He was supposed to have come today, anyway. Yes, he would certainly be able to fix it, he reasoned, giving his mind something to cling onto so he wouldn't lose it. If he were to truly go deaf… Oliver didn't know what he might do then.

The professor led them outside to a small, brick-walled courtyard behind the pub. He took out a long, elegant wand from his sleeve and tapped some bricks before they all started to tumble away to form a gate. That gate led to a street lined with venues and stalls, hoarded with witches and wizards and goblins and elves, all mingling and buying from the vendors. Owls flew to and fro in the sky and sometimes sparks of various colors or the dash of a flame would erupt from a part of the crowd somewhere. It was unlike anything the boys had ever seen before. When they gawked then, it was as if their eyes wanted to fly out of their sockets compared to when they first arrived in muggle London. Professor Dumbledore went through the gate and the boys followed.

"Here you have your owl emporium, your shops for books and knicknacks and candies and all manners of products to fill your potion needs. But if you are to buy all of your effects you must have the money for it, and you will find that just up the road at Gringott's Bank. Our keeper of the keys kept these safe for you, since your vaults were transferred. Oh, and I nearly forgot, your train tickets. I have those, as well," he said, tugging out of his pockets two rather intricate keys and a pair of tickets in golden and mulberry. It was rather difficult to hear the old man clearly by this point, due to the lack of sound coming through Oliver's ears and the fact that the crowds were bustling all around them; he got the gist of it, though, and took his key and ticket. "Though, now that I see the time," Dumbledore said, glancing at a pocketwatch. "I won't be able to go with you any farther, I'm afraid. There is a meeting I must attend to at the Ministry of Magic. I hope you will find everything well, boys. Goodbye!"

* * *

With a wave, Professor Dumbledore disapparated from their sight; it nearly caught them by surprise since they hadn't seen it done since they were smaller. They were suddenly alone, alone in a vast sea of strangers that could potentially be malicious. They were not easily trusting of others if any hint of suspicion was implicated.

Hugo and Oliver went down the street to where Dumbledore indicated Gringott's to be. The white marble building loomed up at them, disjointed and uneven in its brickwork, however sturdy it was. Once inside, passing two doorways and goblin sentries, the boys entered the main hall. The ceiling was vast and painted with intricate designs.

Hugo kept a slow pace with his friend. As they made their way down the hall and to the counter where the head goblin sat, he watched the other goblins sorting, cutting, polishing, and appraising gemstones and ingots. They all had rather ugly grimaces on their faces, accentuating their long, pointy noses and beady eyes. The goblins of Gringott's Bank did not seem like very friendly folk.

"Hello?" Hugo said, reaching the head goblin's counter. "We are here to get money."

"Get money? Well I hope you don't intend on stealing any, since anyone who tries to dies a horrible death," the goblin said, leaning over the counter to see the children better. This one had a rather morbid sense of humor, Hugo noted. "Do you have your keys?"

Hugo gulped. "We do."

The goblin smirked, "Very well, hand them over, please." Hugo and Oliver did so, having to reach up with their toes in order to slide them onto the counter. The goblin inspected them briefly with a spectacle and then gave them back. "Everything seems in order. Arge will show you to your vaults." At that moment another goblin appeared, this time from a back hallway. He ushered the boys to follow him, and they did.

After being brought down a tunnel and entering into a damp, dimly lit chamber, a cart pulled up on the tracks and they sat down inside. The goblin Arge did not steer as the cart zoomed off through many tunnels and passageways. Deep they dove into the unhewn rock, rushing past a great underground lake and gorgeous caverns gleaming with unmined gems and crystals. But, as soon as they had started, all of the wondrous and mystical sights were ended as the cart slowed and they exited; the first stop.

Arge came up to Oliver. "Key, please." The blond, who looked uneasy still (much to Hugo's worriment), handed the goblin his key. With a simple turn and motion of the magical tumbler, the door was open. Inside the small-ish chamber was a small-ish pile of wizarding money and some gems. It looked very nice, but wasn't worth much in the real world. Taking what he could carry in a pouch and his pockets, Hugo watched as his friend gathered a part of his measly fortune.

They went again into the cart, and traveled farther down this time, making for a slightly longer ride. They stopped at a more grand sight; the vault's doors were of a strange material, glowing, but full of shadow, and covered with metal beads to act as a sort of armor, perhaps. Again, Arge asked for the key, Hugo's key. The goblin took it and unlocked the door, but it would only open after he laid his hand on upon the door and pushed with all of his might. What was seen in that vault was very vast compared to Oliver's. It was larger, for one, and contained much, _much_ more treasure inside. Hugo took up a pouch as well and stuffed it with as much money as would be allowed. This was the inheritance given to him from his parents. He felt slightly bad that he had more money than Oliver, though, and he could feel his ears growing hot as he stuffed coins into his bag.

Hugo and Oliver then rushed towards the surface of the earth in their cart with Arge the goblin at the head. The wind ran through their hair and past their ears, stinging their eyes with the prick of a crisp, prime power. For whatever reason, Hugo looked to Oliver while they were still rushing along in the cart. What he saw made him nearly stop breathing- Oliver was holding his ears and looked as if he was pained. With some effort, while force tugged against him, he reached out and put his hand on Oliver's shoulder. The other looked up, alarmed, and immediately resumed what would be considered an inconspicuous state, though obviously embarrassed.

* * *

The ride ended. The boys went back outside and exited Gringott's.

"What happened, when we were going back up? Your ears?" Hugo asked in fragments, trying to formulate anything that might sound like a coherent sentence. Oliver shrugged.

"It was nothing-" he said, but stopped himself, sighing. "It was something. I think it's the potion that the doctor gave me. He said that it would heal me but might have some other effects; I think this is one of them. My ears, my hearing… it isn't working properly and it's only getting worse." Oliver dragged a hand through his windswept hair. "I figured when we get back to your grandparents' house we could get the doctor to look at it. I can barely hear what you're saying, but it is enough. I think, though, it will be worse later." Hugo took on a look of worry; it was commonplace for him, recently, to bear that expression.

"When did it start?" he asked as they walked to one of the shops.

"When we first arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and I had to stop, that was when it really started."

Hugo thought for a moment. "Then you might be… not able to hear later?"

Oliver nodded.

"What if he can't fix it?" That question rang in his ears. Literally, in fact, he couldn't actually hear it clearly enough to respond.

"I- what did you say? Say it louder," he pressed, leaning closer to the other.

"I said, _what if he can't fix it?"_

"Oh…" Oliver lowered his head. His own voice was only a series of blurbs and fuzzy murmurings. "I don't know." Hugo sighed.

"Let's just hurry up and get our things quickly so we can go home."

" _What?"_

" _LET'S HURRY UP SO WE CAN GO HOME!"_ Hugo shouted at the other.

* * *

And so the boys went to each shop which had the supplies which they were to procure. Out of all of the smaller ones, the bookshop was both of the boys' favorite. It was not horribly noisy and had cozy chairs to read in. However, they could not bother with the chairs for they would be dawdling and not making haste to return back home. So they got their books (Hugo got two extra for himself and Oliver with his abundance of gold, consisting of books called _The Classification and Analyzation of Magical Sea-Creatures and Folk_ by Newt Scamander and _Violin Playing as I Teach It_ by Leopold Auer) and left the store to continue their spree. Soon they had not only their books, but potions ingredients, cauldrons, and robes.

Next they came to a shop called _Eeylops Owl Emporium_. As guessed, owls were in abundance, but so were toads and cats and a small manor of other creatures. Oliver went his own way in the shop and came to a place where cats were kept in cages on the floor and walls. For reason that Oliver could speculate, he came to a cage with a large red cat in it. He reached his hand out for it to smell-

 _BITE_!

He quickly drew his hand back before the cat's teeth could nip his fingers. He went over to a different cage.

This one held a particular cat. She was smaller, white-ish, had a fluffy tail, and had big, almost violet eyes. He did the same with this cat and let her sniff his hand, like most cats are accustomed to doing. She did not bite, and afterward only looked up at him with wide eyes.

Some time later, Oliver brought the cat he had chosen to the counter to buy her. Hugo did the same, but had a handsome Boreal owl instead. Soon they were off again, this time to the wand shop.

"I named mine Picc, short for Piccolo. What about yours?" The owl warbled.

Oliver didn't really understand but did the best he could and pointed to his cat. "Yes… that's a cat. What did you _name_ your cat?"

" _Y, dsa' cat. Wh na y'cat?"_

"Um…" he hesitated.

Hugo sighed. " _What did you name your cat?"_

That was better. "Ulfa, her name is Ulfa."

"That is nice," Hugo muttered, holding the door open for him to the wand shop _Ollivander's_. Hugo had his wand already, but Oliver didn't have one that worked. The wand he had stolen from the officer back in Poland didn't agree with him any more now than then.

"Hello!" greeted a young, lanky man. "I'm Mr. Ollivander. You boys need wands?"

"Only me," Oliver said. This man spoke well and articulated his words. He made his way to the middle of the room, where the young man addressed the boy.

Mr. Ollivander nodded. "Alright, I'll let the tape do its thing," he said, walking away to the back to search for a suitable wand. As he did this, a tape measurer flew from inside a drawer in the desk by the wall and whizzed around Oliver, making him twist in awkward directions as it took measurements all over his body of the most odd sort.

Even as the tape did this, Mr. Ollivander asked him various questions. He asked about his height, his dominant hand, if he preferred the moon or the stars, his choice in draperies, etc. Then, the tape went away with a flick of the wand master's hand, and he came back to Oliver with some selections for him to try out.

"Here, try this one. Apple and unicorn hair, it makes for a generous wand." Mr. Ollivander gave the wand to Oliver to try. At first nothing happened, but as he prepared himself to give it a flick, the man plucked the wand from his grasp.

"No, that one's not right," he muttered, and handed Oliver one wand after the other, taking each back within a moment. This man was either a genius or a little bonkers.

Finally, though, Mr. Ollivander gave Oliver another wand. "I'm hopeful about this one, I think. Blackthorn and phoenix feather. Powerful for dueling, but it makes for a stubborn match." Oliver took it, and, like the other wands, felt nothing. But Mr. Ollivander didn't take the wand from him, he watched.

Oliver focused hard on the wand. If the man in front of him was talking, he couldn't hear even a murmur because he was so engrossed in getting something from this one wand. All of a sudden he flicked it at the ground, and out burst a great, fiery spark. It did not set the wooden flooring on fire, but did leave quite a nasty black mark. He was shocked for a moment, staring at what he had just done. It was his first time using a wand, after all, and it was a mesmerizing feeling, when one wielded magic for the first time.

"Splendid!" Mr. Ollivander cried, immune to the damage done upon his shop. Oliver paid him the seven galleons expected for the treasure and walked out feeling quite accomplished.

"What does 'splendid' mean, Oliver?" Hugo asked, making sure to speak directly into his ear. He didn't know that it made no difference now and was nearly impossible to hear his voice clearly. If he hadn't said it so close up Oliver wouldn't have heard a noise at all.

"It means… something is very good. That it is wonderful."

Hugo thought for a moment. " _Splendid,"_ he said, trying out the words on his lips. "The day is very splendid, I think. The clouds are white and the sky is clear and blue." They walked down Diagon Alley and to where the Leaky Cauldron sat.

"Yes, I think it is." Oliver looked up at the crisp sky and breathed in two lungfuls of cool air and let them out forcefully. "Let's go home soon, after we get ice cream. They'll be waiting for us."


	7. Enigmas

**Chapter VII : Enigmas**

By the time Hugo and Oliver had returned to his grandparents' estate, Oliver was troubled. He was struggling to make out any sounds at all, tugging at his ears in desperation. His face was with the pallor one who had come to a hallowing realization, eyes livid as he succumbed to his struggle of the mind. It must have been truly difficult for him to realize that he was becoming deaf, especially since he was one of the few individuals that depended on the sounds of man to properly live with purpose. He could never know how much pain his friend felt at that moment. The anguish, he could see, was eating him alive. All of this Hugo saw with his intuition- Oliver looked troubled, still, but just to the untrained eye he looked confused.

"Hugo, say something," he whispered all of a sudden, unaware of the low volume of his own voice.

"Okay. Can you hear me?" Hugo said it louder than he otherwise would. But, despite his efforts, Oliver shook his head and tugged at his hair.

"I, just… your mouth moves but no sound comes, _keine Töne,"_ he muttered. His voice was thick but he kept his lament.

"Then let's walk faster," Hugo said, tugging Oliver's shoulder so that he would get the message. The latter adjusted the straps on his pack which held the things he had procured in Diagon Alley. It was past lunch time and clouds were starting to appear again. Robins repined somewhere closeby and ravens barked as they flew west.

They broke into a sprint as soon as the downpour came. They splashed through the rain and mud, dirtying their old clothes. They jumped around to avoid tree roots and shielded their faces from the bullets that aggressed their journey home. Hastily, Hugo and Oliver pounded on the front doors, begging the locks to open. The lion's head on the knocker growled at them once more and bore its fangs, but opened the doors for them to fall in on the rug.

"Where _have_ you two been? We've been worried sick!" Mrs. Hawkins positively howled, rushing from the dining room to them.

"We were at the Diagon Alley, grandmother-" he paused for a breath. "-we first wanted to see it but then we got our letters to a place called Hogwarts… and we got our supplies with money from the bank."

"You- you got accepted into Hogwarts, dears?" Her demeanor quickly digressed. "You got them while exploring Diagon Alley?"

Hugo nodded. "From a man called Professor Dumbledore. He works there."

"Oh, how fine! I was sure you'd get in, we were getting worried… Oliver, dear, you were accepted as well?" Oliver, who had been silently standing next to Hugo looked up, unsure of how to respond. He looked around for a moment before Hugo prodded him- he nodded. "Wonderful! I'll tell Rupert- but don't think you two aren't still in trouble! No dessert for you at dinner tonight. Go take baths now, you're very dirty, I see."

Hugo nodded obediently, for they had had ice cream earlier in the day.

* * *

He watched it like a film. Mrs. Hawkins came up suddenly as they entered the house and seemed cross with them. But as soon as Hugo explained himself, she cooled down, and seemed surprised for a moment. Then, to his demise, she turned to him, saying something incomprehensible. For a fleeting moment he panicked, unsure of what to do. What had she said, oh, what had she said? He couldn't read lips. He looked around for any clue at all, and then he spotted Hugo. He prodded him in the side and nodded. Oliver suddenly looked to Mrs. Hawkins and copied his friend. She was pleased and walked off.

Suddenly, he, all in a blaze of adrenaline, went after the old lady. "Miss," he said, gathering her attention. She turned and smiled at him. She mouthed something that he could suppose was to ask what he wanted. He opened his mouth to answer, but he had to force it out. "Call the doctor, please." Suddenly her face went subdued and she opened her mouth to call for someone. Quickly Mr. Dove came and then rushed off again. Mrs. Hawkins took his hand and led him upstairs to his room.

It all happened very fast. Soon Doctor Abbott was with him and looking into his ears with strange devices, tapping him, shouting, trying to see if he could hear anything at all. All the while Oliver was there, but not there. He stared out into the space of his consciousness. What if the doctor couldn't fix his hearing? What if he was to be deaf forever? He might just bash his head into the wall until he could move no more.

Suddenly Doctor Abbott got out another odd potion from his bag. He handed it to his assistant, who took a dropper and gathered a two drops of the liquid before ushering Oliver to lay on his side. This potion was clear and frothy as it entered his ears, one after the other. After she had finished, Abbott sat him up and situated himself in front of him. He tapped his ears with his wand. With each tap they popped, making him jump. After some rounds of this a garbled, tinny speech came to his senses.

"…Can you hear me yet, Oliver?" It was just enough for him to understand and he nodded, heat coming to his face. Abbott nodded. "This will wear off soon, but I'm going downstairs to brew a proper fix. Hugo said this started before noon, correct?" Oliver nodded. "If you had waited much longer it might be impossible to get your hearing back. Anna will administer this stimulant to help your ears from falling asleep anymore. As soon as it gets more difficult to hear than this, tell her immediately." Doctor Abbott then rose and gathered some supplies from his bag and headed downstairs. He looked on him with pity. Oliver, wanting no more to do with this affair than he had to, took up a book to distract himself.

* * *

Hugo was in the room the entire time, and wondered how he might help. Then, as the doctor left, he got an idea. He forgot his sorrows and worries and was instead absorbed by excitement.

"Are you going to talk to him?" he asked Anna the assistant, who had drawn up a chair.

She nodded, "I suppose, yes."

"I can help. One moment," he said, rushing down the stairs to retrieve something that he was sure Oliver would like. One day, while the other was still confined to his bed, Hugo had explored the mansion. In a storage room, which he had unlocked, were some old muggle artifacts. He recognized one from when he had visited his own muggle friends in Italy- a gramophone. There were some old vinyls that came with it, as well, hopefully pieces that Oliver would know. He took them in his hands and hauled them up the stairs.

"Oliver! Oliver, I've got something for you! Look! Do you know what it is?" he said, filled with glee, and oblivious to the other boy's obvious poignancy. Oliver looked up and nodded. "Do you know these?" Hugo laid out the records on the bed: Tchaikovsky Symphony No. 5, the first two Beethoven Piano Sonatas, the Mahler Lieder, and some Benny Goodman.

"I know them," he said, still sounding dejected. Anna took the records and installed one of them into the gramophone and started to play it.

* * *

They spoke, too, while the music played. As they waited for Doctor Abbott, Hugo prompted Oliver to talk, and made him laugh. They also went through all of the vinyls they had twice. Oliver had to have his ears treated several times.

Finally, after hours of biding their time with stories and talking, Doctor Abbott came up the stairs with a little steaming cauldron in his hands. He set it down on his previous chair. "This should get your hearing back in a few days." He ladled a small portion into a bowl and handed it to him. Oliver took it and tentatively drank it, making a truly disgusted face afterwards. "It's not supposed to taste like proper porridge, I know, but it's for your own good."

"Thank you for doing this," Oliver said.

"Nonsense, this is my job, helping people, muggles and wizards alike. Thank your benefactors, though, they're the ones that are paying for me to come here and help you." Realization crossed the boy's face, and he nodded. "And you're not confined to bedrest this time around. Do as you please, but if, say, in the near future and the next day or two, you cannot hear so well, maybe you ought not to be jumping down the stairs or flying a broomstick, if you know what I mean." Both of the boys grinned sheepishly at this and nodded.

Mrs. Hawkins came into the room, standing in the doorframe. "All done here? Thank you Doctor," she said, shaking his hand.

Suddenly, as the two were going from the room, and Oliver having remembered the doctor's words, he blurted out, "Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins! For having him come here to help me. Thank you doctor, also."

The adults grinned their thanks and walked on their way.

* * *

For those three days he was heavy of heart, but was kept cheerful by Hugo's efforts. He had him distracted so well that he could hardly recall being hard of hearing for so long. It was amazing, really, when he thought about it, that Hugo would go to such lengths to make him happy. He didn't know why, though, since they had known each other for so little a time. Well, he supposed, they were like brothers now, and they had been through much. He supposed it was passion out of tragedy.

Days later, when it was easier for him to hear normally, Oliver went back to the record player, which had long since stopped, and took the remaining vinyl out. He did this after he had picked up his instrument for the first time in days. He felt rid of the feeling of cotton in his head, but, surely, it would return, if not much later than sooner, like a reminder for him to rue the day that he cheated his way out of a long, painful journey of healing. It was almost at that moment when he took the initial potion that he resembled Macbeth.

"Where did you find these things?" Oliver asked, turning the vinyls over in his hands. He looked inside of the cone on the device, as well.

"In an old closet, but it was locked. I probably shouldn't have taken it."

Oliver thought for a moment. "How much of the house did you explore by the time you found this?"

"Maybe… fifteen minutes?" Hugo shuffled his feet and took one of the discs, wiping it down with his shirt.

"Then let's go and explore some more. I've barely seen more than my room and the dining table," he said, venturing to the staircase.

"I was surprised, though, that I found no _elfi domestici_ here. Such a large house would need one or two, even with the human servants, I think," Hugo commented, sliding down the wooden railing of the staircase. Oliver thought it was strange, too, now that he thought about it.

"Did your family have house-elves?"

"No, we were not rich enough. Did you?"

"No, we had very little money, too."

So they explored the estate, but for a wizarding establishment, it was extraordinarily normal. "There must be some kind of hidden passageway, maybe, to the cellar. Or a door behind a painting or bookcase. Wizards have those, right?" Hugo nodded.

They then proceeded to pat the walls and pull books off of shelves, convinced there must be something they were missing. The only reason they could get away with this, though, was because the Hawkins's had to go to an important meeting concerning politics; Mr. Dove was visiting relatives closeby and Lila Southwark was going to a festival where they taught one how to sow seeds and maintain herbs and vegetables through magic. They were to be out all day.

Suddenly, as Hugo started to tug at the candlesticks screwed to the wall above the mantle of the fireplace in the library, a voice cried out, "Stop it, you two! You're going to ruin all of the work Gylbard's just finished!"

They both turned on their heels- a tiny, skinny man stood before them, clad in old rags and socks. His ears and nose were very long and pointy and his eyes bulged from their sockets. "Are you a house-elf?" Oliver asked, his full attention being used to observe the little man.

"Of course Gylbard is! He was just cleaning the living area when two monsters showed up and wrecked it all," he said, clutching a duster in his hands.

"We're sorry," Hugo said. "We were exploring."

"Exploring for what?" Gylbard croaked.

"Anything, a secret passageway, a hidden chamber."

The house-elf grumbled to himself. "There's nothing for young boys to find here."

"Are you sure?" Oliver pressed, desperate for any kind of new stimulus.

Gylbard stuck out his chin and paused for a moment before speaking, wit evident with him. "Positive."

After another pause Hugo turned to Oliver and whispered, "I don't think he's very positive. He seems very negative to me. And I'm sure there's a passageway in this house." Oliver laughed, then. It was perhaps- no, it was the first time since their escape that he had laughed.

"Yes, I agree, and he doesn't smile. Or do you?" he said, turning to Gylbard. The elf, now timid, as if taken aback by their boyish playfulness, shook his head vigorously. "Why don't we see you normally? We have been here for a while."

Gylbard shrugged and rubbed his shoulder. "It isn't Gylbard's job to be seen, it's to clean and maintain. Master shouts otherwise," he said, his voice trailing off.

"He doesn't beat you, right?"

"No, master isn't as cruel as other masters Gylbard has had. He might call Gylbard nasty names, like Grumpert, but he is a very, very good master. Well- sometimes he does beats." Hugo furrowed his eyebrows.

"That doesn't sound good. But I believe my grandfather would do that. He's not very nice."

"He's not a bad conversation partner, though. Sometimes he and I talk, just us," Oliver said. He didn't disagree, though, that Mr. Hawkins wasn't the nicest of men. When the boys first arrived at their estate, Mr. Hawkins was overcome by emotion and was very cross with them and about his daughter's death, for rightful reasons.

"Really? He has done that with me, sometimes, too, but he looks too scared to say much. So he leaves," said Hugo.

"He was scared to talk to me at first, too. Maybe it's because we aren't from this country." Because he was German. Stereotypically, Oliver figured Mr. Hawkins would be fearful of him because he might think all Germans are Nazis. He heard something similar from one of the store clerks in Diagon Alley the other day.

Hugo nodded. "Maybe." He turned back to Gylbard. "If you won't tell us about any secrets this house holds, that's okay. You were secret enough, and good to meet. My name is Hugo Corvo," he said, holding out his hand for the elf to shake.

"I'm Oliver Faust," he said, adding his name in. Gylbard, though Hugo's hand was out for him to shake, was too timid, and trembled with the shakes that came with nerves.

"Gylbard can't, he can't," he said, clutching his feather duster. "It wouldn't be correct. Gylbard is a servant." Hugo formed an 'O' shape with his mouth.

"…But you can still shake it if you want to, no one is here to look. My grandparents and the other servants are gone for the day." At this, Gylbard, still seemingly unsure, stretched out his own hand to shake Hugo's. Then he clutched it, and gave it a good wag. Then he shook Oliver's hand. After these two shakes he was suddenly full of vigor again, as if a plant which was revived with only a little water.

"Gylbard hasn't ever shaken any wizard's hand before, like equals," he said, loosening his tense grasp on the duster. "I hear there is a place where house elves work but aren't mistreated like in households."

"Why can't you just go there?" Oliver asked, impervious to social norms in England, especially those concerning house-elves.

Gylbard shook his head, a wan grin coming to his features. "In order for Gylbard to be dismissed from service to the Hawkins family, he must be presented with clothes. Only then will Gylbard be free."

Oliver thought for a moment. "What if you just ran away? What would keep you from getting to this place?"

"They would send someone to catch Gylbard," he said.

"And what if Hugo gave you clothes? He is Mr. Hawkins's grandson." With this new information, Gylbard thought for a moment as well. He scratched the top of his head where no hair grew and then made a face.

"It might work. Gylbard is bound by a promise to the family that he must serve them until he be released or till death. Since Hugo Corvo is part of the family, perhaps it may work. But then there are legal issues," he said, rambling on about how deals work. This really was a smart and rebellious house-elf, Oliver reasoned, listening to Gylbard talk. He reminded him of an adult he once knew. After he had finished his digression, Oliver asked a question.

"What was the place you wanted to go to for a better life?"

Gylbard nodded, "Yes- Hogwarts castle. They treat house-elves very nicely there; they even pay for work! Gylbard wouldn't ever take money from them, though. Gylbard have a cousin who has worked there for some decades, and he is most happy and content. Gylbard might give himself beatings for it, but it would be the best thing for him. Even if he couldn't go, serving for this house is better than other jobs."

"Hogwarts? We are going there for school in a few days! Why not come with us?" Oliver said, suddenly excited.

Gylbard shook his head. "Not yet, Gylbard must stay here for now. But, maybe, Oliver Faust and Hugo Corvo could ask the headmaster if Gylbard may work there? If he knows then it would be easier for Gylbard to get out of this house." Oliver and Hugo nodded simultaneously, pledging they would do it.

They spoke more about beatings, how house-elves came to be servants for wizards, and how the wizarding world worked in England, specifically concerning the Ministry of Magic. Gylbard explained that there were many departments that did different, important jobs, and that there were heads of the departments. He also mentioned that there was a Minister of Magic, who was like the leader of the government, who ruled in a democratic sort of way. It was all very interesting; the boys wanted to hear more, but before they could ask for Gylbard to continue his stories and explanations, the front doors opened. Being in the library, the three were not going to be seen immediately, but would be found soon. There were books in disarray on the floor, things and papers strewn on tables. As quickly as they could, the trio tidied up in the most convincing way conceivable. While they were doing a good job, it wasn't quick enough.

" _Go!_ There is a secret passageway in the chest by the back door of the room, it will lead upstairs. That is the only one Gylbard knows about, but there may be more. This house isn't new. Gylbard will take care of the rest of this mess," he hissed, ushering them towards the chest. The lid came up with difficulty; it was as heavy as solid lead. They clamored in, but before they closed the lid to venture upstairs, they saw Gylbard snap his fingers, and all of the books and papers and knick knacks and candles flew back into place; in a wink the entire library was in order again. Oliver eased the lid down and they followed a narrow tunnel, up, up, up until they reached a platform. All the way since they had started had been completely void of any light, but there came light from an opening, though dim, as if pelted by a shade. They pushed on it, and out came a painting like a door. They closed it- it was the portrait of a beautiful woman sitting in an ornate chair with a thin man by her side. The passageway had opened up into the main hallway that their bedrooms were on upstairs.

"Come on," Oliver urged, stopping his own trance and pulling Hugo by the arm to his room. Quickly they handed each other books and started to read, all of a sudden pulling blank, concentrated expressions; Hugo pointed and nodded thoughtfully to a paragraph in the book he had picked, which happened to be upside down.

Just as soon as they had entered, the door opened, revealing Lila and Mr. Dove. "We just wanted to make sure you boys were doing alright!" Lila said cheerfully. Mr. Dove looked plain as ever.

"We thought we heard noise in the library," he said, a resting grimace upon his bean shaped face.

"No, we were up here the entire time, reading," Hugo explained, brandishing his book like a weapon. Mr. Dove squinted.

"Maybe it was the house-elf?" Oliver tried, wondering if their knowledge of Gylbard would be too much for them to believe. Lila nodded,

"Of course! He was probably just tidying up after you two, good on him. You probably had to get books from down there and you maybe left some out of place?" she suggested, seeing what had really been going on. The boys nodded vigorously, returning back to their reading. Mr. Dove closed the door.

* * *

Mr. Dove came back some time later to relay a message back to the boys: that they were to have dinner in their rooms that night.

"What? But that's not right, why can't we eat with them like we always do?" Oliver asked, fingering his violin's bow- he had been practicing when the older man came in.

"That's just how it has to be, boys. There is an important visitor downstairs and the discussion between him and the Master and the Mistress must not be interrupted. Your food will arrive in just a moment," he declared, shutting the door and striding off to gather their dinner. Hugo laid down his book on the ground.

"I wonder who could be so important that they can't have us hearing it with them," he said, half-mindedly tugging at his curly red hair. "Must be something that they don't want us passing on, huh?"

Oliver nodded. "Something secretive…" He then thought: " _It's probably concerning politics, something to do with the war, perhaps. Something controversial, something that must not be heard lest someone they don't like, those mysterious men that wanted our names, perhaps, finds out and they… tell the Nazis, and let them become one step ahead of us before the other even realizes it…! This is very warped thinking, but if that is true, then that means England's domestic connections and moves can and will be infiltrated! Why else would it be secret like this? It wouldn't matter if we found out, but if we happened to mention it and someone heard, who would be there to hear that it might be so dangerous for them to know? That must be it, yes, it must be! There is no other explanation! There are Nazis and bad men here. And the Hawkins are trying to solve problems downstairs without doubt that they will not be heard."_

Suddenly, he turned to Hugo. "Did you get the paper today? I want to read it."

Hugo, who wasn't listening, took a moment to think. "Uh, yes! I have it, in my room." He ran to go get it and swiftly returned, giving it to Oliver, who took it and skimmed down the front page until he came to a headline: _Magic and Muggles: Both Are Doomed, Says Spencer-Moon._ The article continued, listing an account of the Minister for Magic warning the wizarding world of the muggles' war and that it could and would definitely affect them. That was evidence enough for Oliver.

"They're talking about the war," he said, lowering the paper. "It only makes sense. They just came from a meeting and brought someone home for dinner so they could keep discussing whatever they had been discussing before it ended. Your grandparents are ex-political people, right? It would make sense."

" _Si,_ that makes sense."

"And… I thought about something. If they don't want us to hear, that means that whatever they're talking about, if we happen to hear, gets passed on by us to someone bad, that would mean something _very_ bad for a lot of other people. But, disregarding whatever I digressed about in my head, it depends on who it is they're talking to. How high up they are." Hugo nodded.

"Why not take a peek after Mr. Dove comes back with our food? If this is as important as you say it should be, then neither he nor Lila should be allowed in the room with them. We will just have to find out if they are watching our room."

"That also makes sense. We'll do it, then," he said, rising. Then Mr. Dove came back and opened the door, bearing two hovering platters with his wand, born with luscious food. The old man put them on the desk in the room and left without saying more than " _Enjoy your dinner."_

Oliver ate his meal like a ravenous dog. He, though desiring to know what the adults were conspiring about down the stairs, felt like a pig, one who disgraced himself, what his parents worked for, and what so many others had to suffer through in the camps. He felt as if he was disgracing them for hunger. And here he was, gobbling down all of his dinner like a greedy, spoiled boy. Of course, he did not eat without savoring for sheer greed; he had a reason to be so hasty with his dinner. But he was reproachful and, nevertheless, felt sour inside.

The boys both finished their meals. Oliver and Hugo, on their toes blanketed by cotton socks, crept across the floorboards, sliding their feet on the polished varnish to ensure as little noise as possible. Mr. Dove and Lila were nowhere to be seen. Oliver carefully slid his feet over the carpet-laid stairs, and then slid his posterior down the next step. They did this until they reached the part of the staircase where the wall did not shield them from the dining room. They clutched the railing as they listened from the other side of the wall. Floral patterns battered their peripheral vision all in burgundy and silver.

"…they say the Nazis are supposed to bomb us any day now. The cities, mainly, of course, but so many of our students and the muggles live there. I fear they may be devastated throughout the year… what with their families evacuating and hiding in shelters under the ground. There's never been something so calamitous in my lifetime," a foreign voice said, pausing to sip whatever sat in his goblet. It was the voice of an old man, smooth and wise. "There's no doubt it will happen very soon."

"Will they be completely safe at the school? That must be on every parent's mind at this point," Mr. Hawkins asked, his chair creaking. They definitely knew it was him because of the old seat at the head of the table he used.

"Every security spell is in operation around the perimeter of the school. Safety is our number one priority, yes, but in these times I will be blunt: no one is safe. I give the parents the pretty answer, but I hate to lie. If the Nazis decide to bomb Hogwarts, which they definitely could if they so desired it, as it would be a strategically wise choice on their part, I would like to think our charms and shield would not be harmed and protect us accordingly. But we have no way to know until that day comes, until that bomb drops. And I really do hope that never happens." The stranger sighed. "I fear at some point during this war we may have to close the school, if it gets too bad."

"Yes…" Mr. Hawkins said. He, too, sighed.

"You said earlier the students' families and the muggles were evacuating, correct, Armando? Where are they going?" Mrs. Hawkins paused for the man named Armando's response.

"I believe that we may be getting visitors. The muggle Prime Minister informed me of possible evacuees staying at our school for a time. I don't know how long that may be and I don't know when or if they will even arrive. I surely hope not, for their own and our good."

"Churchill is the Prime Minister's name, correct?" Mr. Hawkins asked; a pause. He then whispered: "I can't help but to ask. I've heard rumors going around that Britain is infiltrated by the Nazis. Does Mr. Churchill know anything at all about this?" All were silent for a very long time. Armando seemed to take a break to gather his thoughts and munch on something.

"I have suspected this myself, and I have asked him," the old man said eventually. "He has received similar reports from his own men and that is what he also believes. He said to me, 'Armando, if these times are truly what they seem to be to us now, then we must have _constant vigilance._ Trust no one and always be on your toes.' There's no small amount of wisdom in that, I tell you." Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins made sounds of agreement.

Oliver and Hugo suddenly got up and scrambled to the former's room as fast as they could without making an excess of noise; he wasn't sure if they did so successfully or not. After Armando's last words the noise from the table indicated that the diners were rising from their chairs to leave, so the boys did not want to be seen. They made sure the close the door very softly before jumping back onto the bed and taking up books. Shortly after they had settled themselves, Mr. Hawkins creaked open the door.

"The headmaster from Hogwarts was here, boys. He had to leave abruptly, but we told him about you. He was very interested and sends his good wishes to both of you," the old man said, retching every word out as if it pained him to speak. "I expect you boys will go to bed, now. A good sleep on you both. Hugo, go to your own room." He left. Hugo bade his friend goodnight and went to his bedroom to sleep.

All of the information which Oliver had learned from eavesdropping on the secret dinner meeting was racing through his head. Explosion? Evacuation? Infiltration? He could hardly believe what he had heard. It was all so sudden. Not wanting to bother himself with it until morning, he put it off and tried to sleep. But he didn't for some hours and was awake until the moon shone brightly in his room through the cloudy glass and parted curtains. He was awake until the daze of the cloudcast sun glittered through his window, petting his tired eyes with its lolling glow. Dust filtered through the air. All was not well in this bullet-cleaved, bloody heap of a world.


	8. The Train to Hogwarts

**Chapter VIII : The Train to Hogwarts**

When the day finally came for Oliver and Hugo to go to Hogwarts, the boys gathered all of their meager belongings and took them in rucksacks. Hugo also had his owl, Picc, in hand, while Oliver shouldered his violin and his own cat, who despised her cage. She vouched to follow along on her own four legs. Being a mild control freak, Oliver wasn't very lenient at first but Ulfa wouldn't have it any other way.

"Are you ready to go?" Hugo asked his grandparents, who were finishing up their breakfast. He and Oliver had finished theirs fifteen minutes earlier in anticipation. Mr. Hawkins grunted as he put his dishes in the sink, where the sponges and brushes in the sink scrubbed away without a whim.

"We're not going with you, as we have meetings to attend to."

"We're really very sorry, Hugo, Oliver," Mrs. Hawkins said, clasping her bony hands. "You know how it is, very important." Although the Hawkins's could not come with them to the train, they showed the boys how to get to King's Cross Station on a map of London. It seemed simple enough, but how they were supposed to get onto a platform somewhere between nine and ten baffled the boys, and neither of them remembered to ask their caretakers. Hugo thought the whole matter was rather silly, but he supposed meetings _were_ important. More important than them? Probably.

"Go on, now, and write to us as soon as you can! Tell us what houses you were sorted into, dears!" Mrs. Hawkins said, her voice trailing after them as they headed down the drive to the road.

Before they were outside of ear reach, Oliver suddenly blurted out, "What houses were you sorted into?"

"Hufflepuff! And my husband was in Slytherin!" That was what they last said before their departure. Oliver and Hugo walked down to Mill Hill Avenue and trudged around roots and through the dirt track to the city. Frequently, while just at the estate, the boys would go either together or alone on walks through the woods surrounding the area, or just on this road, which was flanked by the most beautiful trees. The forest was alive, breathing green. It reminded them of perhaps a fantasy in which the forest was connected, all one, and there was no such thing as London. It was a marvelous place to live, and they hoped that nothing about it would change, not ever. It was perfect and should have been stuck in time.

Hugo looked up and watched the way the green canopy of late summer dazzled in the crisp morning air as he walked. The birds sang their tunes and filled the entire being of the forest with song. The earth breathed with the wind as it brushed its bare back of dirt, which yielded the forest, living and breathing as well with the earth and the breeze. The trees towered above the boys as they walked down the path that had been trodden on for generations upon generations of muggles and wizards alike, flattened out undergrowth marred by the boots of the great-granddaddies of a time before. It was as if the memories of those generations blew past them in the wind, stroking their hair, licking their cheeks, patting their shoulders and touching their souls. Hugo smelled the earth and the trees and the wind and the memories; it was bittersweet in his nose, but mostly mirthful in the new day. It was a nice, cool morning, and Hugo looked forward to being a part of it.

Hugo fingered the golden and burgundy train ticket in his pocket. He sighed and took it out, inspecting it again. _Platform 9¾._ By this time he had realized that he had no idea what that meant, and mentally kicked his rump for not asking his grandparents about it earlier. "Oliver," he asked, pointing to what was on the ticket. "Do you know what that means?"

Oliver looked it over, suddenly remembering the ticket. "Er- no, I don't. We'll have to ask someone when we get there," he said, out of any other ideas.

* * *

Hugo and Oliver walked for nearly three hours before they reached London. By this time in the morning, muggles were milling about, just as they had been when the boys previously visited the city. They had to occasionally push their way through a slow moving crowd. This time, as they did so, they entered into a venue where vendors shouted and advertised their wares. It was very much like Diagon Alley, but for muggles. With all of the people stomping about, Oliver clutched Ulfa in his arms so she wouldn't be trampled upon.

Hugo watched the stalls go by. Many were selling food: bread, vegetables, fruits, meats, fish. It smelled wonderful and was all well and good until a commotion started somewhere behind them at another food stall. The boys turned and saw what it was all about. A single boy had taken some rather nice loaves of bread and a basket of pastries from a baker's stall, and very soon there were men and even a policeman chasing the boy, who had a wild grin on his face and messy black hair which whipped back in the wind. The street urchin was heading straight for them.

He nearly barrelled into the foreigners. "Take these," he said, dumping bread into their hands. Ulfa climbed onto Oliver's shoulders and Picc screeched from inside his cage. The boys looked at each other and then at the other boy, so confounded that they couldn't use words. "Follow me!" he shouted.

Oliver looked on in dismay. "No, we can't-"

"No time!" the other boy said. "Let's go!" He ran off, and, completely on instinct, Hugo and Oliver followed at high speed.

A whistle blared behind them. Men yelled at them to halt, but they whipped and weaved around bystanders, clutching their unexpected bounty, their luggage, and their pets. Suddenly, losing sight of the thief-boy through the crowd, Hugo stopped, catching his breath. He had no reason to keep running down the lane. Oliver found him and stopped his chase as well, limping to meet his friend.

"What do we do with th-" he was cut off as he was grabbed around the middle by a red-faced policeman. Another man did the same to Hugo, but he wasn't in any authority. Others took the bread from their hands. The boys struggled and shouted at the top of their lungs that they were innocent, they didn't know what to do, that it wasn't their doing. Of course, the adults did not believe children, especially those seen running away with stolen food. Ulfa scratched and yowled at the man holding Oliver captive; she succeeded in making him let go but before Oliver could get away, he was caught again. They were about to drag them off when another voice chimed in,

"They're innocent, the first boy shoved the bread into their hands so they would get in trouble instead of him! They did nothing wrong!" Hugo had no idea who it was, but it wasn't a man's voice. Perhaps a woman or another young person. Much arguing still went on that they should still take in the thieves, but more voices chorused, saying words along the line of the first which started the counterclaim. Then the bread which had been collected turned into dirt in the men's hands. They were taken aback, and as they were stunned, Oliver and Hugo scrambled free from their captors and escaped down the road at an even faster rate than they had been previously doing. They didn't look back and only stopped when they couldn't possibly go on any further.

"They're- not following- right?" Hugo panted, barely able to push any words through his mouth. In the same shape, Oliver nodded.

"Did we go the right way?" the latter said once more, looking around the place where they were: a dingy courtyard with three cobblestone pathways other than their own, which they had come on.

"I thought we went in the way that the map said earlier," Hugo said. "Look- Barnet Street."

"We're on the right course," Oliver remarked. "Good." After that run, Oliver was rather expended, though, and clutched the place where his wound used to be.

"Let's take a break, you need it, don't you?" Hugo asked, sitting down against a wall. He patted the place next to him for the other to rest. He did so. Hugo poked his finger through Picc's cage and stroked his beak; the owl was rather puffed up and agitated, but he calmed. Ulfa climbed onto Oliver's lap and rubbed her face all about his hands, her wet nose and whiskers gliding across his skin. They were quiet for a long moment.

"Don't worry about it. We can't stay for long, though, the Hogwarts Express leaves at eleven. And it will soon be time. I don't have a watch, but being here for too long wouldn't be wise," he said, his sides becoming less restless.

"No, you stay here as long as you need to-"

"Then let's go. That's all I need." He started to get up, but still seemed pained. Ulfa hopped onto the ground with her white tail up like a plume.

"But are you sure?" Hugo pressed. He struggled to keep his rucksack on his shoulders.

Oliver stood straight up, defensive. " _Yes._ Let's go."

* * *

It seemed to him, at least, that he was very antagonistic about his newfound disability. Oliver was normally never like that to Hugo, and shouldn't have been, he thought, and felt a bit guilty. He couldn't help what came over him, though- shame, in all its fastness. He hated what had happened and it only made him hate himself all the more.

But quickly, whatever odd feelings between them remained after that dissolved and they were walking merrily down the street together again, excited for this haven called Hogwarts. Oliver had been exposed to plenty of magic, but never was able to learn any himself. Hugo had learned a bit but hadn't gone extensively into his studies. This would be a sort of gateway for them to see what they were capable of.

They arrived at King's Cross. Trains a mile long waited for muggles to climb into their bellies and zoom away on the tracks. Steam clouded the vast ceiling and made the lamps glow in a dim fog. Oliver and Hugo walked until they came to platforms nine and ten- no platform nine and three quarters could be found, even when they searched around the platforms and asked several people, who gave them very quizzical looks. The boys found themselves rather at a loss of what to do. Oliver glanced at the clock above them- it was fifteen minutes until the clock struck eleven, and then the Hogwarts Express would be off without them on board. What would happen then? Oh, their dream would be gone and they'd have to return back to the estate with their tails in between their legs. Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins would be very cross and probably never let them go to Hogwarts, ever.

Oliver sighed and picked up Ulfa, leaning against the pillar with the platform numbers and the clock on it; he pet her head and let her nose touch his. There, whenever she did that she made the most silly face. Her lips would part slightly and her eyes would narrow, but she looked so happy. She was a very cute animal; he couldn't have chosen a better companion that day at Diagon Alley.

Hugo pet her head absentmindedly. "It looks like she ate too much for breakfast," he said, giving a wide grin at her, which she only returned.

Suddenly, for no reason, Oliver looked up, and Hugo just after. A large, imposing man with a wild head of hair stood right before him. He was at least two feet taller than him and looked very mean at first. He made a sort of growling sound, to which Ulfa, in Oliver's hands, squirmed, though he kept a firm grip on the feline. Picc tried to flap away in his cage, but only succeeded in making Hugo hang onto him for dear life before he calmed down from his spook. Before he could say anything, the man let out a low gurgle:

"Yer standin' in front of the portal." It wasn't as menacing or as deep as Oliver anticipated. He gently let his nerves subside and he racked up the courage to reply.

"The portal to the Hogwarts Express _is_ right here? I cannot see it," he said, disbelieving of the man. He clutched Ulfa; she seemed to calm down, some, but was still uneasy. The gruff man suddenly let out a string of loose, hearty laughter.

"O-o' course it's invisible," he howled. "Otherwise these muggles would've invaded our world long before our time."

"Rubeus? There you are, I was afraid I lost you- as if it'd be that easy!" a little man jabbered, jogging to keep up with the other, who had gone on ahead to talk to the boys. "Yer head bobs around like a great big mountain among hills."

"It's a'right, dad, I found where you said the platform oughtta be."

Oliver looked to Hugo as his eyes widened in realization. " _This is his son? But he's so big, taller than his father. I thought he might eat us for half a moment,"_ he murmured to his friend in his own mother tongue, giving a light but nervous chuckle.

" _I thought so, too. He could help us get into platform nine and three quarters, though, since he obviously knows how."_

Oliver nodded, turning back to face the man and his rather tall son; they gave them rather queer looks, but returned to their normal conversation. "Do you know how to get to the platform?" he asked, taking his shoulders off of the brick pillar.

The one called Rubeus nodded, "Yes, but you have to walk or run into it, right dad?"

"Tha's right. Come over here, boys," Rubeus's father said, bringing them away from the portal. "-you can call me Mr. Hagrid, by the way. Now, all you must do is go at a brisk pace, or a run if you prefer. Rubeus, would you care to demonstrate?"

"'Course," he said, bringing his trunk in front of him and rolling it as he walked. He was heading straight for the wall, and before he could crash into it and cause an unsightly disturbance, he vanished through it as if past a vale.

"How come we did not fall through?" Hugo asked suddenly. Mr. Hagrid shrugged, though amused.

"Dunno. Maybe it thought that foolin' you would be amusing, lad. Anyways, who's next?" Immediately Oliver asked to go through the portal after Rubeus. As he didn't have a trunk to push in front of him, he kept Ulfa in his hands, making sure she was secure.

"One, two," Mr. Hagrid said, making fun out of the boys' adventurous nature.

"-three!" Just as he said the last number, Oliver bolted towards the wall, Ulfa letting loose a long yowl along the way. He steadily got closer to the wall, racing past the muggles which were meandering around. A thought flashed through his mind- what if the portal didn't work and he crushed himself and Ulfa against the wall? Of course that thought would come to him. He doubted and questioned all. He would just have to try and trust; there was no stopping his descent upon the portal, now.

He hit the wall with no impact whatsoever. He stopped, then, and opened his eyes, having closed them before he hit the wall. He was in a different place, where a great red train sat on the tracks. People in odd robes and pointed hats milled about, towing their children and their luggage along. Owls flew overhead and past a sign which read: _Platform 9¾, the Hogwarts Express._ He had made it.

Just a moment after, Hugo emerged from the portal with a flustered Piccolo in his hands. Mr. Hagrid came not a moment after him. Oliver looked around for Rubeus, and quickly found him standing a ways away, seemingly waiting for the band to show themselves. He waved as they came to greet him again.

"Well, you did it, boys! What are your names, I don't think I caught them?" he asked, adjusting his own pointed hat.

"Oliver Faust-"

"And Hugo Corvo." They both stuck out their hands to shake. Chuckling, Mr. Hagrid crossed his own hands and shook them both at the same time. Oliver didn't know if it was some sort of English custom or just something he did. Either way, Mr. Hagrid seemed like an amusing man.

"Anyway, have fun at school. Rube," he addressed his son. "Write to me, tell me what house you get into and say what you like best." Rubeus nodded and gave his father a bear hug which certainly would have broken his spine if he hadn't been too careful.

When his father had left the scene, Rubeus turned to Oliver and Hugo. "You can call me Hagrid. I know my dad calls me by me first name, though I don't like it much. Hagrid's a much better way to call me," he said, rubbing the back of his meaty neck.

Oliver and Hugo nodded and proceeded into the crowd to find the entrance to the train.

* * *

Somehow, Hagrid had disappeared from the boys' view. Hugo scanned the crowd, but being shorter, he could not see much more than shoulders, even if he was looking for a certain head. Hagrid was about as tall as an adult, and there were many adults roaming about the station.

"I suppose we'll just find him on the train," Oliver shrugged, holding Ulfa in his hands like a baby. Hugo outstretched his hand and rubbed her belly; he was met with a soft growl and he chuckled nervously.

"Yes. Let's go, then," he said, starting for the frontmost car of the train. They soon found out, that, with fifteen minutes to spare before the train launched, there was very little room to accommodate them in a compartment without joining a handful of other children, which the boys did not fancy doing. Students ran about the cramped middle hallway of the car with candies and sticky things flying about them. Multiple times Hugo had to dodge a small, fluffy owl, who seemed to want to nest in his red mane- he and Oliver had gotten haircuts (a wonder!) some days before school started, but Hugo's hair was still rather messy, while Oliver's was combed back nicely and parted at the side. By this time, though, as Hugo was about to turn to make a remark to his friend, he realized that the little German boy wasn't by his side.

A moment of panic- and then just surprise. Where had he gone, Hugo wondered? He supposed if it was easy enough to lose a giant boy like Hagrid then it was possible to lose someone like Oliver. He had to find him, then. He was sure he got on the train, as well. Perhaps he had accidentally gone ahead of him, as Hugo had stopped for too long when the little bird started its roosting. It _did_ cause a bit of a commotion, after all.

Hugo proceeded to explore the train. After coming to the third car, he passed a compartment where a boy quickly exited, sporting a large grin and messy black hair. He nearly crashed into Hugo as he swiftly exited the compartment. He looked a bit familiar, Hugo thought, and then it clicked.

"Sorry, didn't see you, there-"

"You are the boy who stole bread," Hugo said, eyes widening. "Aren't you?"

The boy's grin only grew larger, and he laughed. "Yeah, that was me. It was a fair bit of fun, wasn't it? Their faces when it all turned to soil- unbelievable!" The boy finished his merry-making and straightened himself out, but not without joviality in his speech and how he held himself. "My name's Monty Potter. The name's really Fleamont, but it's not so good to be called that. People laugh."

"Why should they laugh?" Hugo asked, clearly not understanding what was so funny about the name. Coming from Italy, he didn't know how odd it was to be called a surname- a very odd one, at that.

"It sounds like I'm a dog with a never ending itch! Phff, I'll duel anybody who says that, once I learn my spells. Say, what are you called? You never said. You talk a bit funny, don't you?"

"Oh, right- Hugo Corvo. Yes, that's my accent. My english isn't so good," he said sheepishly, absentmindedly squeezing himself against the wall of the hall for a group of loud older students to pass.

"No, I can understand you. But you might be made fun of for it. That's what always happens, anyway, if the bullies think you're different or weird. And there are definitely bullies here. They're always at institutes like this. When I went to primary school with the muggle children they were everywhere. Children can be so mean, I find. If they do, tell me and I'll take some swings at 'em." Monty held up his fists then in mockery and let loose another grin.

Hugo laughed, then. "Sure. Anyway, have you seen a blond boy around? He's my friend and I cannot find him." Monty shook his head.

"Just blond? There are lots of kids with light hair."

"Er- he has green eyes, walks strangely, has a cat and a violin. He might have gone ahead of me, I think. But I don't really know, I might turn around to look."

Monty thought for a quick moment. "No, I haven't seen him. We'll definitely see him at the feast, later, though, if you can't find him now."

"There's a feast?" Hugo asked, wonder in his voice.

"Yes, of course. It's hard to get that kind of food, now, though, but somehow the school does it and the house-elves prepare it. I can't wait, to be completely honest with you. We've just been rationing for a couple of years back at home and it's anything but exciting to eat meals."

Hugo's mouth started to water. They hadn't called dinner at his grandparents' house a feast, but it definitely seemed like one. That was the first real food he or Oliver had ever had in almost half of their lives. Whatever this feast consisted of, he could only guess. Probably the finest dishes this country had to offer, he reckoned, but he didn't really know what those were. "I can't wait, also."

Picc suddenly screeched lightly in his cage, rattling it around in his master's hands. Hugo gripped it and stroked the boreal owl's head to console him. "You know, he might be hungry. If you don't have something to feed him, we can go find the trolley lady and buy some food from her to feed your owl. Speaking of hungry, I could eat a whole centaur, hooves and all. We can get some food for ourselves while we're there. Come on," Monty said, starting to walk off in another direction. Hastily, Hugo followed him, his own stomach rumbling with anticipation. Another boy passed by as he walked, and he bumped Hugo's shoulder.

* * *

Oliver buzzed up the car, having lost his companion. He scanned the area as he walked, dodging the odd owl or student, but found nothing to suggest that Hugo was there. He was surely on the train, but he could not find him; he continued to look. He let Ulfa (who was small and in her kittenhood, yet) perch on his shoulders, with her body lounging behind his neck and her legs and plume-tail draped lazily on his front. He did not grab her feet, but otherwise he almost looked like a shepherd carrying a lamb.

He limped along the passageway and scanned as he did. Step, trip, step, trip, scan left, scan right, pet Ulfa's fur- a compulsion. He Would have continued this pattern except for a strange boy. Oliver passed him on the left, but after he did, he could see the other rise from his seat and felt his finger poking his arm to gain his attention.

Oliver turned; a pale boy, with dark hair and gray eyes. He had a rather cold expression, but his face held one of a regular boy, though something seemed… off. "I saw you earlier, at the market. They almost had you, but I led the crowd saying you should be let go." Oliver blinked.

"That was you?" he said, slightly confounded. He must have seen everything. "Er- thanks, it was fortunate you were there. We would have been late to the train, otherwise."

The boy nodded and stuck out his hand for Oliver to shake. "I'm Tom Riddle. I'm going into my second year."

Oliver took it and gave a strong grasp as their hands wagged through the air. "Oliver Faust. I'll be in my first year."

Tom squinted, and nodded again. "You're from Germany?"

"I am." He must have noticed; it took him long enough. Ulfa growled unexpectedly. The boy Tom did not say anything afterwards, nor did he make any kind of remark before taking leave from Oliver and going back to his seat, surrounded by a handful of other students who seemed to be around his age. Oliver hobbled away before he would seem strange, just standing there. It was at that time that he began to dislike Tom Riddle, and would try to avoid him at all costs, which proved futile.

He eventually reasoned to himself that it would be easier for he and Hugo to be reunited before their arrival at the school if one of them were to stay stagnant while the other searched. He vouched for himself to be the one which was to sit down, as he was growing very tired of walking with his luggage and his little cat, cute as she was. He ventured deep into the train, but found no places to rest, save for one compartment with a lonely girl in the middle of it.

He knocked on the cloudy glass of the door before gently opening the latch and pushing the door sideways to ask if it would be alright if he shared the compartment with her, since all of the others were full and there was nowhere else to sit down on the train. She obliged and he went in happily. He put his violin and his bag in the luggage compartment and kept Ulfa in his lap, who decided she wanted to doze off now that the noise from outside was quite muted.

The girl was of far origin, but spoke with a very fluid voice. Her voice was like velvet and her tongue was laced in satin. "My name's Henrietta Hockney, but you can call me Henry. It's quite a mouthful, that name." It was such a warm voice. Her face was warm, too, like dark clay with a hint of umber. The teeth in her mouth, neat in a row, sparkled like seashells which had been freshly polished. Her hair was puffy and soft, growing to form a halo around her head of thick jet curls. Her eyes were of the deepest black, sparkling with the mystery of the unknown. The strangest thing was, he hadn't seen anyone who looked like her ever before. There were no such people in Germany, those who had deep skin and midnight eyes- at least those who were alive, or just barely. He stared for what seemed like an eternity before he answered.

"Oliver Faust," he said, sitting there with curiosity. He couldn't just let this gem go unnoticed. He was a gentleman, after all, though he had no experience being one. "You're very beautiful to look at. Where do you come from? I've never seen anyone like you before." She visibly bloomed. She was confident when he had first met her, but Henry had had a shield on, up for any potential spitballs. But she finally relaxed her shoulders.

"I grew up here in England but my great-grandparents came from Africa, and our family's been here ever since. Where do you come from? You sound foreign," she asked.

"Germany. But I escaped," he said simply, or that was how he implicated it. "Why did your family leave their home?"

Henry didn't bat an eye at his answer. Whenever he said that to adults when they asked they either walked away like Tom Riddle or glared or made some snide remark. "They were taken away and used as slaves until the abolishment. Then they got their own general shop- it's in Westminster, if you're ever around."

"I see," he said, reminiscing on her words. "Where is Africa?"

Henry almost laughed, and showed a grand smile. "You mean you've never even seen a map before in muggle school?"

Oliver shook his head, also smiling, for he felt a bit embarrassed. "No, I haven't been to any kind of school before. I don't really know what the world looks like, or anything children learn when they're young."

She rifled through her bag, eventually bringing out a light green, rectangular book. "Your maths, science, history or writing? Why haven't you, were you not allowed?"

"No, I wasn't. But I do know how to read and write, I've done that as long as I can remember. Nothing else, though."

Henry was a bit confounded. Suddenly she blurted out, "What's nine times two?"

"Erm… eleven?" A little smirk of amusement plagued Henry's face before she quickly explained how multiplication worked. She said it was very, very easy, and that it's just like adding, only faster. Two nines, what is nine plus nine… bingo, that easy! Then Henry pulled out the map from the back of the book, which was a page of its own, but large and folded up. She pointed to a large shape below what she indicated was Europe.

"That's Africa. It looks much like an ear, doesn't it? And here," she pointed to a place on the land. "Is where my family came from."

Oliver nodded, not only looking where she pointed, but at the entire map. "Do you ever want to visit Africa some day?"

"I think so, yes, but when I'm older and when the war's over. If I save up enough money I can buy a broom and ride there on it. My parents said we have family there and we sometimes write to them." Then Henry showed Oliver all of the other continents and where England was. She pointed out where Germany was and Oliver was quite astounded that it was so close to England- Henry said it really wasn't that close, but it wasn't far away either. It just looked that way on the map because of how small they rendered it.

"What was it like in Germany? I heard it was bad but I've never met anyone from there. And if they're ever around, they're not here long," she suddenly asked.

Oliver started to clam up- his mouth didn't want to say, but he'd sugarcoat it for her. He'd do that for anyone, as they shouldn't know. But even though he had just met her, he wanted to tell her so badly.

"They put me in prison," was all he said. Henry grew a very curious look on her face but then stopped, as if holding herself back. She did not lose her luster, however.

"I'm sorry for asking, I didn't realize it was such a tender subject."

Oliver shook his head and smiled. " _Alles klar,_ it's fine. It's natural to be curious." He quickly forgot about the awkwardness and was about to ask her another question, but was interrupted by the door to the compartment opening and a rather wild-looking boy with messy hair poking his head in. He looked very familiar, actually.

"Henry, I finally found the trolley! Do you want to go and get some food with me and a couple of mates I found just now? They're good guys," the boy said, seemingly already in acquaintance with the girl. She nodded, going through her bag again to find a small pouch of money.

"Oliver, do you want to get food, as well?"

He nodded, "Yes, I-"

"OLIVER!" All of a sudden, Hugo burst in and embraced the blond, saving him from breathing in precious air. He made a struggling noise out of humor and the redhead let go. They both ended up laughing before saying anything.

"Hey," Oliver said, poking Hugo. "Ich habe dich gefunden."

"No, no, no, no, no, Ich habe _dich_ gefunden, du bist hier geblieben."

"Egal, lass uns mit ihnen gehen." The two turned to go with the messy boy and Henry, but were met with odd stares, and then laughter.

"You two are _absurd!"_ Henry guffawed, and the other boy joined in.

"My name's Monty, and I suppose you're Oliver?"

"That is correct. I recognize you, where have I seen you before?" he asked. Monty shrugged.

"Well I only just gave you that bread and had a grand old laugh at the sidelines when they saw it turn into dirt. Sorry they grabbed you, I didn't know it would get that far."

Oliver shrugged, too, and got up. "It's alright. It was fun, now that I think of it."

After their little escapade, the quartet went to a nearby car, where an older woman and a trolley resided. She was surrounded by a small crowd of children wishing to buy sweets. The going was slow, so they expected to be standing around a while. From what they could hear from the clamor, she was selling sandwiches and bonbons and pumpkin juice.

While waiting around to get to the trolley, a big blundering bloke wandered about and accidentally bumped into Oliver with a "'Scuse me." He looked up and saw none other than the biggest boy he had seen with his own eyes.

"Hagrid, there you are!" Hugo said, his eyes suddenly bright.

"How did ya two lose me? I'm not tha' hard to miss," he mused, shrugging a hand through his curly mane.

"Not sure, maybe we got ahead." Hugo then got in a conversation with Hagrid about animals and magical creatures and what his father did while working at the zoo. This got the other very interested, and they checked out for a while.

Oliver fingered the money pouch in his left pocket as he waited in the mass of hungry children (it was supposed to be a line, but no one would listen). Large crowds were not comfortable for him and if he had his wish, he'd retreat back to the compartment as quickly as he could. But he was fairly peckish by this point and found no reason to have himself starve. During his musings, though, the mood turned sour. A boy with sable hair and striking eyes strutted up, seeming rather full of himself and a load of other things Oliver did not care to mention to the audience.

"A little birdie told me there was a Nazi on the train. Which one is it, I wonder?" the boy drawled, eyeing the quintet with the cunning glare of a seasoned bully. "Will it be the big fat one?" Hagrid was visibly shocked. "The thief? Or the greaseball, or the cripple, or the golliwog?" They were all taken aback. At this point Oliver was ready to throttle the bully, but didn't want to start anything. Only the surrounding people in the corridor showed any signs of noticing the tension, but it was otherwise a nonchalant situation. "I think it's rather obvious, don't you think, Antonin?" Another boy, who was rather quiet, nodded. He had a long, straight face with an intelligent look. It was a shame he was on the bad side of things.

"If you're looking for me you can leave them alone," Oliver said, not stepping away from the group, nor raising his voice. The other boy smirked lazily.

"Like I said, obvious. And I heard you've got a little Eyetie for a buddy. But I'm sure he's a wimp," he said.

Hugo opened his mouth and said, "I am not a- what, a wimp? _Was is daß,_ Oliver-?"

"He's not a wimp," Oliver interjected, ignoring Hugo's question; he'd answer it later. In truth, he wasn't familiar with the word 'wimp' either, but it was surely some sort of insult. His father and english teacher never used it, so he was also unaware of its meaning. "What do you want?"

"I was going to ask you, are you going to score the entire train with bullets since most of us aren't as _perfect_ as you, or are you going to take us down one by one until you're incarcerated?"

Oliver scoffed and shook his head. "No. Just go away-"

"I don't really want to go that hastily, you see. Why are you friends with blackie, there? She's the complete opposite of your Nazi ideals." Oliver's face crumpled in a grimace and he was met with yet another smirk from his opponent. Henry withered.

"She's more intelligent than me or you, and she's beautiful. And truthfully, you are my opposite," he said, taking a step forward. The two other boys howled. "I'm no Nazi."

"So you're not just a Nazi, you're stupid as well? Splendid!" The boy didn't listen. Oliver nearly swung a fist at them, but they left as soon as they came. Hagrid and Monty held him back as they left. As soon as they were gone they let go and Oliver dragged his hands through his hair in desperation.

"They need a beating," he huffed. He sounded much like his father when he talked about naughty boys. "I wish I had my belt instead of these suspenders, otherwise their _Ärsche_ would be raw. Or maybe I could have found a way with my wand to cut off their thumbs, I don't know…"

"You couldn't do anything about it, they're only bullies," Monty reasoned. "Let them get their energy out and they'll eventually go away if they get bored."

"Yes I know, but they insulted all of you! I thought it was wise to stay as calm as possible but I wish I could have done something." Oliver stuffed his hands in his pockets as they trudged to where the trolley lady was; the crowd had thinned in their wait against the two bullies.

"Anything catch your fancy from the trolley, dears?" the old woman asked, bearing the cart with her knobby fingers. Although the confrontation with the two bullies had made him turn bitter, he did not lose his appetite- he had grown to love food but learned to not overeat. It did not feel as good as it did when one was eating the monstrous meal compared to when he was later suffering for it. Hagrid took two cauldron cakes, Monty got licorice, Henry bought some chocolate frogs and jelly beans, and Hugo got a small sandwich. Oliver bought a couple of pumpkin pasties and soon found out when they got back to the compartment that they were perhaps one of his favourite sweets. He had never had pumpkin before, and didn't know what it was (he had to ask Henry again) until then.

Throughout the train ride, his enragement dwindled and levity filled him again; the friends talked about their lives, what they planned to do, what house they thought they might get, what class might be their favorite. They all planned to explore the castle and grounds, though, that much was unanimous. They had heard the territory was vast, and all enjoyed the outside and playing in it since they were younger children. Oliver and Hugo did not discuss their lives very much, but only for Hugo's grandparents. It turned out both Henry and Monty had met before getting on the Hogwarts Express, and were already friends a year or two beforehand; they learned how to ride broomsticks together. Hagrid was half giant, and he could lift his own father off the ground; he also enjoyed poetry, and sometimes dabbled in it. Hugo talked about his love for magical creatures once more and books. Oliver mentioned his violin and book-reading, and was urged by his newfound group of friends to play for them on the train. He didn't have to deny, though (he probably would have played if they begged continuously), since Hagrid pulled out one of his few poems. It was short, but concise:

 _Tell me you listen,_

 _Play and make glee,_

 _But why do you_

 _Upset and toil with me?_

 _To all who are sour_

 _And angry in heart,_

 _The field and the forest_

 _Were with me from the start._

It was beautiful, and everyone applauded him. Hagrid, bashful, gave a small bow with what room he had (for the compartment was quite full, now) and put his poem away. They had been socializing for hours, actually, when it didn't seem that long at all. Soon a prefect told them to hurry up and get their robes on because they would soon arrive at Hogsmeade. They did so (with privacy) and took only their wands and wits with them- they were told their pets and luggage would be safe on the train and were to be transported to their dorms while they were at the start-of-term feast. Oliver pet and kissed Ulfa's head for a goodbye- she was always so sweet. He put her into her cage and then left her on the bench with Piccolo and the owls which Monty and Henry had brought with them. Hagrid had none.

Oliver then took a glance out of the window of the train, which was foggy and cold as he wiped the condensation away. It was a beautiful night; the stars gleamed in the sky, which was rather a dark blue than black, as most nights are depicted. The houses in the village gleamed with candles winking in the windows, but the most magnificent sight was the castle. It was so tall that the topmost tower seemed to touch the very moon itself. All of the windows glowed with a rich, amber light, which illuminated them against the sky very nicely. It was probably the most awe-inspiring sight to be seen, other than perhaps a newborn baby wrapped in cloths or the sight of the hall and the audience all around when one looks away from the music on the stand and the conductor forward whilst playing, or there afterwards when the music has finished and the sound coming from their hands and mouths is enormous and tantalizing to the senses.

"Oliver, we're getting off, now!" Someone yelled. It was probably Hugo, but he wasn't listening. He finally ripped his gaze from the window and dashed down the corridor and onto the platform. The cool wind brushed through his hair and over his face. He felt alive. Even though his leg throbbed from all the raucous events of the day and running just then, he didn't care. It felt good to have the wind in his face and blood pumping through him. He wasn't in danger anymore, no. He was somewhere amazing, and he didn't know how he got there. It was a miracle, in his mind, and always was after that.


End file.
